Children of the Dragon
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: The year is 220 of the Fourth Era. Skyrim is divided, the Dominion declares war, and the children of Eirik the Dragonborn rise up to make their place in history. Sequel to The Dragonborn Emperor, rated M for violence (which will appear in time)
1. Wanderlust

**(AN: Here we are at last, the fifth and [hopefully] final installment of my Elder Scrolls series. Set some seventeen years after the events of The Dragonborn Emperor, we pick up with Eirik's daughter Sigrun, who was born at the end of The Dragon and the Bear. Like with most of my stories, i shoot big for this one. I have high hopes to make of Sigrun a hero to match and surpass such modern stereotypes as seen in MCU's Black Widow and Agent Carter.)**

 **(Realistically, though, i don't want to finish writing this story. I've grown disillusioned with writing them, since my main character is [in the rough drafts] starting to look like an OP mary sue [like Rey, another property of _Disney_ , like the MCU], and i have no story to go forward with. At least this has taught me that long series aren't my thing, since i can't keep coming up with new and unique situations for each new story.)**

* * *

 **Wanderlust**

Sigrun sat upon a stone on the pebbly southeastern shore of Lake Ilinalta in the verdant woodland hold of Falkreath. Coming down here to the lake was one of her favorite activities, and today she had been afforded enough free time to do just that. These times were few and far between as far as she could remember, and she always relished them when she could. The stillness and clarity of the lake brought peace to her whenever she felt upset or worried. Many times she had swam in it, despite the dangers of slaughter-fish therein. When she was eight, one bit her on the foot: that evening, the family had fish to eat. Ever since then, she rarely had incidents with slaughter-fish and came to enjoy her time in the lake as much as that on its shores.

But this day it was different. She sat on the stone, looking this way and that, down the southern shores of the lake. Though it spanned most of the length of Falkreath, she could only look eastward, where the White River made its course down towards the sea. Time and tide had taken their toll on the restless young Nord woman and she did not feel at ease on the shores of Lake Ilinalta. She wanted to follow the White River down to the sea, following the same path that Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions made when they returned to Skyrim. Then she wanted to see the world beyond the woods and valleys of Falkreath. She wanted to see the mountains covered with snow, the windswept golden plains of Whiterun, the crags in the west, the marshlands of the east, even up into the far north, in the lands of snow and ice, where even summers were hoary-white.

With a sigh, she removed her boots, then hiked up her trousers and waded out into the water. Though it was early summer, the water was cool and tickled her toes. Out she went about knee deep, then looked down at her reflection. Many people often stopped at her home, Lakeview Manor, which was a short hike from the lake: they often told her that she looked like her father. This was true to some extent: she had her father's long, wavy hair that was the color of chestnuts. She also had her father's nose, and maybe a few other features which she could not immediately notice. She saw quite a bit of her mother in her reflection as well: she had her eyes, blue-gray that, in the right light, turned to amber, as well as her mother's full lips. Seeing their features reflected back at her reminded her, day by day, of who they were. Her mother had been a great adventurer, who had traveled the length of Tamriel, and later settled down to protect Riften. Then she had met her father, who had also traveled no small span of miles: from Skyrim to Cyrodiil, then the isle of Solstheim, mainland Morrowind and High Rock.

Adventuring was in Sigrun's blood.

She reached down with her hand cupped and brought the cool water up to her face, washing herself of the dirt and sweat thereon. For she had only stopped here for a few minutes of rest during the day's work. Her father, when he was not protecting the people of Skyrim or feasting with the Companions in Whiterun, was a woodsman. From her earliest memories, she had always been kept busy in some way, never being allowed to fall into idleness. As a little girl, she helped her mother when they had people over at the house, which was more often than not. When she became old enough to wield an ax, she joined father in the woods around their house, cutting down trees. About the same time, her father and his huscarl began training her how to wield a blade. Such pursuits were greatly to her liking, for she enjoyed the rush and sting that came upon her while sparring. As much as she enjoyed heating her blood with thrusting, parrying and wielding a shield, these martial pursuits had the unfortunate side-effects of leaving her drenched in sweat at the end of the day. The weather in Skyrim was often very cold and even if she had no qualms about sweat, being sweaty in the cold weather could be dangerous. Therefore she often went down to the lake to cool off: over the years, she cherished such times, for they were her moments, the small amount of time that was hers and hers alone.

While she stood out in the water, pausing for one brief moment from the rigor of the day, a voice called out her name behind her. She turned around and there, on the bank, stood Jonna, her best friend. She and her mother lived with Sigrun and her family at Lakeview Manor for as long as she could remember. They had grown up together, eaten at the same table together, played together, sparred together and were as good as sisters, though they could not be more different. While Jonna was at least five months older, she was shorter by a head. Jonna had the blue eyes and golden hair of her mother, but what features were not from her mother she did not speak of: unlike Sigrun, Jonna never knew her father. Furthermore, while Sigrun was quiet and reserved oftentimes, Jonna had a tendency to be louder and more assertive. Only when they sparred did the differences fade away and they seemed to be as sure as shield-sisters, though they had never fought in the shield wall.

"Still out here?" Jonna asked.

"Always," Sigrun replied.

"Da wants you to come back to the house," Jonna stated, referring to Sigrun's father Eirik as 'Da.' He had been the closest thing Jonna had to a father, and no one in their house seemed to mind. "He says we still have another two logs to cut."

"I'm right behind you," Sigrun answered, sloshing through the shallow water back onto the shore, where she took up her boots and held them in one hand while she walked alongside Jonna back towards the road.

"And why are you so gloomy?" Jonna sighed. "Of all days to be sad, why does it have to be today? Haven't you forgotten what today is?"

"I'm not gloomy," Sigrun grinned. "Just...thinking."

"About what?" asked Jonna.

"Oh, what it would be like," she replied. "In the world beyond the forest, over the mountains and across the lake." She looked southward, the direction of the road: a phalanx of tall, evergreen spears rose up from the bulk of Falkreath. "A place with something other than spriggans or slaughter-fish." She sighed, then turned to Jonna. "I want to see those places, Jonna. Don't you?"

"Well, of course," Jonna playfully scoffed. "But aren't you at least going to put on your boots first?"

Sigrun looked down and realized that she was still bare-foot. She sat down and, after wiping her feet with her hands, put her boots on. Once she was shod, she leaned over to Jonna's ear and whispered:

"Happy birthday."

"You liar!" Jonna retorted, shoving the taller woman playfully. "You forgot, I know you did!"

"Did not!" Sigrun returned. "I've even gone and purchased you something. Went down to the Riverwood Trader and bought it myself, I did. But..." She pointed at Jonna. "...you can't know what it is until tonight."

"Gods, I wish you were a little more lively," Jonna teased. "Remember your sixteenth birthday?"

"I'll never forget that," Sigrun chuckled fondly.

"I let you guess what I bought you," Jonna exclaimed. "It's more fun seeing you struggle to guess what you might be given."

"If you say so," Sigrun smiled.

"So why were you out here?" asked Jonna.

Sigrun sighed. "Like I said, I was thinking."

"Uh-huh?" Jonna nodded. "Thinking about what we talked about?"

Sigrun smiled fondly. What they talked about often meant a great number of things. When they were eight, they promised that they would live together, die together on the same day and be buried or burned together. When they were thirteen and boys suddenly became something more than a nuisance, they promised that they would also marry together, but only until they had both bloodied themselves with battle and not to any milk-drinker. Sigrun had promised that whoever could win her heart and defeat her in unarmed combat would be worthy of her love: Jonna, being less serious, had sworn that she'd marry whoever could out-drink her. But lately, they talked about other things.

"Yes, I have been," sighed Sigrun. "Very seriously."

"And?" Jonna asked.

"We'll bring it up tonight," Sigrun replied.

"We?" Jonna chuckled. "No, no, no, no. No, _you_ bring it up. I'm going to be enjoying myself. I'm eighteen today!"

Sigrun smiled. In about five more months, on the 17th day of Last Seed, it would be her eighteenth birthday. That was, of course, one of the many reasons that brought her to the shores of Lake Ilinalta this day. The restlessness of youth was still strong in both of them, and they were eager to see the world and do more than merely cut wood and tend the house. Her time would soon come and she wanted to be out and about in the world beyond the forests of Falkreath.

* * *

They returned to the clearing around Lakeview Manor and returned to their chores. As the light of day was starting to wane, the girls were still busy with their work, hair tied back and faces covered in sweat and wood-chips. For a brief moment, they let down their axes as Eirik, Sigrun's father, walked towards them. He was a tall man, with long hair the color of chestnuts and a forked beard that had grown long in the years since his return to Skyrim: of late, however, his beard showed signs of graying at the end and his hair was streaked with lines of gray. Despite his age, he was still as powerfully built in his youth, and could still wield an axe or great-sword. Both of the girls looked up to him: not merely because he was taller than they were, but because of who he was to each of them. To Jonna, he was the one who had given her and her mother a place to live, and he was the Dragonborn. For Sigrun, he was her father.

"Well," he said, looking down at the pile of chopped wood they had made behind them. "You've worked hard today. I think this calls for an early break. I'll get the wood put away into the shed. You two go and practice until dinner's ready."

Sigrun thanked her father, then walked the rest of the way to the wood-shed with Jonna and put away their axes. Then they ran into the house and came back with their practice shields and wooden swords. The practice shields were proper shields, though they were not toughened with hide on the rims, as battle-shields often were. Their swords were wooden for they were still young and had not swords of their own.

After they found their gear, the two young women ran back outside and began trading blows on their shields. Years of practicing together had given them mastery over what martial skill of swordsmanship they could pick up. Jonna's mother, a former huscarl in the employ of the High Queen by the name of Jordis, knew more about how to properly wield a one-handed arming sword than Eirik, and she had often taught them throughout the years. They drank in her teachings and, before long, had assimilated the martial training of the huscarls into themselves. Sigrun was taller and her arms had a longer reach, but Jonna was fearless: she would often charge in, shield up, and try to overwhelm Sigrun with the suddenness of her attack. Throughout the years, they knew how to counter each other's moves and could fight until one or the other called for a break or they were both exhausted. But in spite of all of their training, they had yet to fight a real opponent.

About an hour or so into their dueling, and several bruises and dirt-stains later, Eirik disappeared and them re-appeared, a basin of water in his hands.

"Alright," he called to them. "Come get cleaned up: it's time for dinner."

The young women set their weapons on the side of the house and washed their faces and arms with the water from the basin. Then they took up their weapons and, with Eirik coming up behind them, went inside the house.

As soon as they entered the house, a chorus of hails and greetings rose to meet them. Sigrun stepped back apace as Jonna rushed into the arms of her mother Jordis, who was waiting for her within. Sigrun smiled as Jonna was showered with congratulations and well wishes from those gathered here: it was not every day that one turned eighteen. A quick glance brought Sigrun's eyes to one at the edge of the group of those gathered to celebrate Jonna's birthday, the one she had been looking for: her own mother Mjoll the Lioness. Even in her mid-forties, Mjoll was still as mighty and fair as she was in her youth. If there was anyone that held equal awe, love and respect in Sigrun's eyes as her father, it was definitely her mother.

Walking over to her mother, Sigrun kissed her on the cheek, then turned to the crowd.

"When did all these people get here?" she asked.

"Earlier today, when you and Jonna were out working," Mjoll replied. "Now where are your father and brother? They should be here for the feast."

"Da should be coming in any minute now..." Sigrun began, then paused to turn around and see Eirik striding through the door through which the two young women had just come. "There he is!"

"And where is your brother?" Mjoll asked.

Sigrun stood on the tips of her toes to gaze over the crowd. Her brother Bjorn, who had inherited Mjoll's red-golden hair, could usually be found with his nose stuck in a tome. Though he was not the firstborn, he was certainly no less special than Sigrun. Aside from the story of his birth, he had taken to reading faster than his sisters and had actually helped them learn the more 'difficult' words of the common speech. When he heard from his father about how, while living in Bruma, he had learned rudimentary enchanting skills, Bjorn took it upon himself to become a mage. Though it certainly surprised Eirik, both he and Mjoll had been supportive of his decision. Bjorn was two years younger than Sigrun and not as tall or as strong as she had been. In fact, it was because of his size that Sigrun had, one year long ago, learned a very important lesson.

"There he is!" Sigrun noted, gesturing across to the long table in the dining room. Bjorn was seated by himself, almost fully engrossed in his books. Breaking from the crowd, she walked over to her brother and pulled the book down from over his face.

"Have you forgotten what day it is?" she asked.

"No, I haven't," Bjorn mumbled. Fifteen was a rough age to be, as Sigrun knew all too well.

"Do you plan on joining us?" she asked again. He nodded. "Do you have your present?"

"Yes," groaned Bjorn.

"Good," Sigrun grinned. "Now go wish Jonna 'happy birthday' before I hit you over the head with your beloved books."

"Sis!" he protested.

"I'm only teasing," she dismissed. "But still, get your ass up and give her your best wishes."

Bjorn mumbled something, then went to the crowd to give Jonna his wishes. Sigrun walked over to the other side of the house, where the lower bedrooms were kept. A wall divided the guest-rooms on the one side from those which had been the children's rooms when they were younger. Now the room had been converted to a store-house, and here Sigrun had hidden her present to Jonna. She made sure that it was still there, then ran back into the great hall to join the guests.

* * *

Lakeview Manor, the house that had been the home of Sigrun, Jonna and Bjorn, was a rather large estate, rivaling Dragonsreach in Whiterun. Built a stone's throw from the main road that led from Oakwood and Falkreath to Helgen and Riverwood, it governed the road and kept watch on Lake Ilinalta. The top floor was where Eirik and Mjoll slept, and the bottom floor where the children and house-hold servants slept. In the center of this was a great hall where guests were entertained and where the family ate their meals. There was in the center of the house a stone chimney, built after the fashion of many of the other provinces of the Empire, that gave warmth to the hall and the upper rooms, which were built around it, and from the hearth a long wooden table was arranged. It was at this table that Jonna's birthday would be celebrated.

At the head of the table sat Eirik, and at his right-hand was Mjoll the Lioness. At Eirik's left-hand was Ralof of Riverwood, his closest friend and his right-hand in the Sons of Skyrim, to whom both Sigrun and Jonna looked up as though he were a trusted uncle. On the right side of the table and to Mjoll's left sat Sigrun, with Bjorn after her, and on the left side of the table and to Ralof's right sat Jonna and her mother Jordis. There were others gathered here as well, friends of their family who were invited to the party. Of the Sons of Skyrim, two others besides Ralof were present here: Angrim the Old, the eldest member and no less doughty, though he was almost seventy, and Perla One-Eye, another older woman who had fought with Eirik, Ralof and Angrim on the Battle of the Plains and the Siege of Solitude during the Thalmor Insurrection.

Aside from these notable ones, there were four others seated on both sides of the table at the very end. There was Thorald Grey-Mane, the now patriarch of Clan Grey-Mane, a once prestigious Nord clan that had fallen on hard times since their betrayal by the Battle-Born Clan. Across from Thorald was a Redguard woman named Rayya, a former corsair who had served intermittently as a huscarl for hire. She had often visited Lakeview Manor and regaled the girls and Bjorn with tales of the strange lands she had visited: from the blistering deserts of Hammerfell to the savage, desolate Morrowind, and even into the very land of the Aldmeri Dominion itself, into Valenwood and Elsweyr. After these two were the stable-boy Finn and Fjolti, a bard who had been patroned by Eirik. At the very end of the table was an empty seat that, though the long table was filled with thirteen people, Eirik and Mjoll insisted be placed there and not occupied.

As soon as all were seated, Eirik stood from his seat, a cup in his hand.

"My friends," he said to them. "The Divines are good to us. For today, Jonna comes of age. Let her now drink the cup and then we shall all celebrate with feasting and music and forget the troubles of the world, if only for today." He then looked to his right, a smile upon his face. "And in anticipation of things to come."

Eirik then passed the cup to Jordis, who said "Drink now, my daughter, and take heart." Jonna accepted the cup and, warily looking at the guests, all of them eying her, then slowly took a sip. With sudden eagerness that surprised all of them, she then drained the cup and slammed it upon the table. Cheers rose from the guests and those near Jonna rose their cups in congratulations.

"Is that it?" Jonna asked. "I should become an adult more often." Some of the others laughed at her jest, then they sat down as the food was brought forth.

All throughout the meal, those gathered talked about this and that. Sigrun listened intently to any news of the outside world, especially of that from the other holds of Skyrim. Strange and terrible things had been going on in the world outside of Falkreath, as she learned. The Sons of Skyrim, the group of defenders of the Seven Holds, had been busy of late, often operating at opposite ends of the country. Of the southern holds, there was news that, with the death of Vulwulf Snow-Shod, a new Jarl of Riften had been appointed. A young woman by the name of Runa Fair-Shield had been named the new Jarl of Riften: little was known about her save that she was supportive of the Sons of Skyrim.

The "loyal holds", as the northern five holds were called, were in turmoil as usual. The cities were overrun with refugees from the "lost" holds in the east and west, and unrest was growing. The High Queen of Skyrim relied on her counselors in the Blue Palace in Solitude, and her only public appearances were to make speeches reminding the people of Solitude of their duty and loyalty to the Empire and that it would save them. But the truth was that the loss of the Reach and Eastmarch, the "lost" holds, spoke otherwise.

"I thought you said," Mjoll interjected as Angrim was about to divulge into details of what was happening in the Reach. "To leave the troubles of the world behind us." Eirik shrugged and grinned, then took another drink of his mug.

After most of those present had eaten, it was now time for Jonna to receive the gifts that had been given her by her family and their friends. Jordis gave her an axe, whose haft had carved into it runes of power. Bjorn's gift was a book on sword-fighting, which Jonna accepted gratefully: it was, in his mind, the best he could give her. Most of the others gave money: not very much, but the small amount grew with each small sack of septims placed before her. While Angrim was placing his sack and regaling Jonna with a well-meaning but lengthy parable about one of his many adventures in his younger days, Sigrun stole away to the store-room and brought out her present, which she laid at Jonna's feet once Angrim left.

It was a shield, made after the fashion of Nord warriors. The bosse in the center was of steel and its rim was lined with cured hide. No charge or device was upon the shield, but on the rim of the bosse were carved runes. Jonna smiled widely as she weighed the shield on her left hand.

"It's perfectly balanced," she said. "How did you know?"

"Who knows you better than me, sis?" Sigrun returned.

Mjoll presented Jonna with a cloak lined with fur, which was also well appreciated. Thorald and Eirik then presented Jonna with a gift they had gotten for her together: a short steel sword forged by Hermir Strong-Arm, the Companions' smith before the Skyforge. Jonna received it with similar gratitude as the other gifts. At this, Jordis arose and placed her hands upon her daughter's shoulders.

"My daughter," she said with a smile. "How you've grown! No mother could be happier to have such a daughter as you. As my mother and...father...said to me when I came of age, I will tell you now some good words of advice." Jordis' eyes were swimming with tears, Sigrun watched on from across the table and Eirik lowered his head. The others looked on in raptured awe, eager to know what sage words Jordis would impart.

"Honor the Divines," she began. "Love your family and this land of ours. Never surrender what you believe in. Speak the truth at all times, so that your word's oath may be stronger than the bones of the earth on which we stand. Never fight in vain, or draw steel if you're not prepared to take a life. Alas..." Her gaze lowered, then after a brief moment of silence, she spoke again:

"Alas, this world is a terrible place, dark days are upon us and it is a hard thing to go through life without fighting. When you must fight, fight to win, even if there is no hope, and be the last to quit a battle. Do not be afraid of death, for there are worse things in this life than to lose a life, and all men and women die at the last: when your time has come, die covered in blood and with your weapon in hand, that you may join the great heroes in Sovngarde. Do this, my dear Jonna, and you will not need to prove anything else to anyone, in this life or the next."

The others grumbled "Well said" and Jonna and Jordis embraced. Sigrun, meanwhile, walked over to where Eirik stood.

"Are you alright, father?" she asked.

"Yes, I am," he sighed. "Just lost in thought...and memory."

Sigrun's blue-gray eyes, glistening in the light of the hearth and the candles at the table, turned to the ground as she tried to muster up her courage to ask her father of what she and Jonna had been planning for years.

"If you have a moment, I want to ask you something," Sigrun spoke at last. "Well, you know, now that Jonna is eighteen, she's old enough to go out on her own. And, well, I'm only five months younger than her, so it won't be too long before I'm eighteen as well. And I was hoping, well, if and when Jonna decides to strike out on her own, that I be allowed to go with her."

"No," Eirik shook his head.

"But why not?" Sigrun pleaded. "I know how to fight, I can read and write, and two warriors are better than one..."

"You're still too young," Eirik sighed. "Five more months, then we'll talk about this. But for now, you must be content to remain here at home."

"Da, please, I'm not Lu..."

"I said no!" he replied firmly. Everyone at the table heard this and were now gazing at the father and daughter, deep in their discussion. Eirik flushed with embarrassment, then walked back to his seat and took up his cup. "Let's have another round for Jonna!" This was met with cheers from those around the table, but Mjoll gave him a knowing glare.

Sigrun, meanwhile, her cup still in hand, quietly sipped and eyed the empty seat at the far end of the table. Though she loved her family and had no regrets, there were two things in the family that were not often discussed. The first was that Jonna, though loved and accepted as a sister by Sigrun and Bjorn and another child by Eirik and Mjoll, had no father. As a child, Sigrun had asked Jordis about it, who, usually open and friendly, suddenly became quiet and cold. Eirik and Mjoll told her that she would know in time, but that time, it seemed, never fully came.

The second thing never discussed was that Sigrun had another adopted sister, a Colovian girl named Lucia. At ten years old when Sigrun was born, she was the oldest of the children. She had been raised in Lakeview Manor, the same as Jonna and Sigrun, by Eirik and Mjoll, taught the same things as the others had been taught, eaten food at their table and worshiped the Divines with them. But a cloud fell over this happy family as adolescence drove a wedge between Lucia and her adopted parents. Then one morning, when Sigrun and Jonna were five, the family awoke to find an empty bed in the children's room and Lucia's bow and quiver of arrows missing. At every meal a seat was reserved, in case Lucia should ever return: but for thirteen years she had not yet returned.

Sigrun knew that she had embarrassed her father in front of the guests by bringing up Lucia, and she felt truly sorry. Who was she to spoil Jonna's big day in such a way, after all. But in her heart, she knew that the wanderlust she had been feeling was not going to go away, no matter whether her father had said yes or no.

"Happy birthday, sis," Sigrun whispered, though her heart quietly said: "I tried my best."

* * *

 **(AN: I know everyone [meaning only one person] wanted to know what happens to Eirik after everything that has happened so far. Which surprises me, i thought everyone hated Eirik: you know, 'he's too weak', 'he's too good', 'he's too boring', 'he's a Nord', 'he's a Stormcloak', all that typical stuff. Besides, this story was specifically a passing of the torch. I mean, Eirik has already fulfilled his role as Shezzarine, being Warrior [it's more than just his class], Observer [at the High Hrothgar meeting, observing Serana's vengeance and Crixus' rise to power] and King [although not a ruler, he did 'de facto' rule Riften, along with Falkreath, during the interim period]: just as Talos was Warrior, Observer and King.)**

 **(If anyone is reading this, please be so kind as to drop in some reviews. I would like to know how this story is going so far, especially if our two main characters are becoming over-powered and unlikable. I know there's not a lot of violence now, but there will be [enough to warrant an M-rating])**


	2. Setting Out

**(AN: This is where everything starts to change: where the main characters make their first steps into the outside world...and where i realized that people might start losing their patience with them.)**

* * *

 **Setting Out**

The feasting went on until the night came and, one by one, the guests went to their rooms or collapsed in the great hall around the hearth. Eirik and Mjoll went to their beds and Bjorn had fallen asleep at his books. As for Sigrun, she was bent over the table, her head lolling with weariness. Jonna, on the other hand, seemed to be immune to the effects of strong drink. She had already gone through half a small barrel and could still articulately speak. She was idly plucking the strings of Fjolti's lute: she was not musically instructed herself, but sleep was far from her and the twanging gut-strings was a little diversion from boredom. But even this was becoming meaningless after a while. Therefore, taking the last still burning candle at the table, she brought it over to Sigrun and nudged her awake.

"Mmm, what time is it?" she mumbled.

"Almost midnight," Jonna replied.

"Then why did you wake me up?" Sigrun groaned.

"Because it's time to talk, hmm?" Jonna returned.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Sigrun asked.

"No, not even tomorrow," Jonna replied.

Sigrun lifted her head up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Alright, let's hear it."

"I heard you and da talking about our plan," Jonna stated. Though Eirik was not her father, no one protested Jonna calling him such.

"I didn't mean to spoil your birthday," Sigrun replied, her voice falling somewhat.

"It didn't ruin anything," Jonna replied. "I'm glad you said it." She chuckled, biting her lower lip. "It saved me the trouble of asking ma about it."

"Mmm?" Sigrun asked. "And what did she say?"

"She gave me a non-answer," Jonna returned, swaying slightly to the left and right. "But I guess that's what comes from growing up in Solitude. She said that she would miss me, that I had nothing to prove by leaving home right away..." Jonna blew a dismissive rasp with her lips, which caused Sigrun's face to fall with concern.

"But she also added," Jonna continued. "That I'm no longer a child, that I can do as I please. And that means we're leaving."

"Leaving?" Sigrun asked. A sudden concern came over her: the idea of leaving was still something far flung, a thing that would not be regarded until the 17th of Last Seed, when her 18th birthday dawned.

"Tonight," Jonna added. "Come on, help me get our things together."

Sigrun followed Jonna, moving almost as one in a dream. Jonna found two back-packs into which she placed spare clothes and a blanket each for a bed-roll. They also had for themselves traveling cloaks and warm clothes to wear for the journey. In a little pouch they stored some dried meat and some bread and took also a water skin. After this, they brought their packs down to the dining room, and then went for their weapons. Jonna took her shield and ax, and the little bag of money that Angrim had given her. For most of the time they moved in silence, until Jonna whispered for Sigrun to come over to her.

"What is it?" Sigrun asked.

"You will need a weapon if we go together," Jonna replied. Then, to Sigrun's surprise, Jonna presented to her the short-sword that Thorald and Eirik had purchased for her.

"Jonna, I can't take this!" Sigrun gasped.

"It's just for a while, sis," Jonna returned. "We'll find you a new one and I'll take this back."

"But it's your gift," Sigrun protested.

"And I'm just letting you borrow it," Jonna added. "It would be wrong of me to let you come with me without a weapon."

"Jonna, I'm not sure about this," Sigrun stated. "I mean, I know we've spoken about this a lot, but..."

"Sis," Jonna interjected. "You said so yesterday, you want to see the world outside of Falkreath. Now we're of age, we need to take our lives into our own hands." Sigrun still stood unaware, but Jonna was insistent.

"Listen," she added. "Lucia made her own choice, and we're not her. We have our own future to find: will you find it with me?"

Sigrun was still torn with indecision. Now that it came to it, she had little reason to leave home just yet. No serious attempts to arrange a marriage for her had happened, and she still felt young. The house she lived in never seemed more comfortable than it did right now, and weariness made her yearn for her bed. Yet as she looked down and saw Jonna standing there, hand held out, a calm came over her. Nothing seemed to bother Jonna, not even the prospect of leaving home and hearth: she felt that, as long as Jonna was there, unflappable in her courage and good cheer, then she, Sigrun, could endure being away from home.

With a gulp, that seemed to spell some final and unchanging fate, she took Sigrun's hand. Jonna smiled and gave Sigrun the sword.

"I don't know what I'd have done if you said no," Jonna replied with a grin.

"You?" Sigrun chuckled with surprise.

"It would be a poor thing, I thought," Jonna stated. "If I had to see all that lay beyond our hold without you at my side. Now, let's be on our way."

Jonna and Sigrun girt themselves in their warm travel clothing and their cloaks, slung their back-packs upon their backs and set their swords, axes and shields into their belts and upon their backs. Jonna and Sigrun then walked to the door, but once again Sigrun halted.

"What is it now?" asked Jonna.

"I need to leave some kind of message," Sigrun lamented.

Jonna groaned. "Be quick, then, before someone finds us."

Sigrun quickly crept to Bjorn's room, where he always kept ink and parchment. Taking these, she walked back down to the little candle and wrote a hasty note:

 _Dear Ma and Da,_

 _I have left with Jonna. I will return. I will give Lucia your love if I see her._

 _Love, Sigrun._

* * *

This she placed on the table next to the candle, then turned around to Jonna and walked out the door: she did not look back, for she feared that if she looked back, she would not be able to force herself to leave. The two ladies opened the door of Lakeview Manor and passed out into the darkness. The night air was cool and crisp, for spring was only recently come and there was still a hint of the chill of winter, weak and feeble, upon the air. First Seed would grow warmer, but for the most part, they would be facing cold weather and so the two young women were grateful for the warm clothing. As if to further bless their departure, the moons were both out that night, giving plenty of light for night traveling.

The women had not gone more than six paces from the door of Lakeview Manor when they both had the distinct feeling that they were not alone. Sigrun looked to the left and saw the little stable, shrouded in darkness from the nearby cliff to the south of Lakeview Manor. Nothing could be seen in the shadow cast by that short cliff. North she looked, where the land sloped on down towards the shores of Lake Ilinalta, and there she saw, or thought she saw, a black shape standing upon the path that led down to the lake. She whispered to Jonna, who looked where directed and, like Sigrun, came to a halt.

It had been a long-kept family secret that there was a guest of Lakeview Manor. Eirik had told Sigrun and Jonna tales about this shadowy figure, who he had met in a cave long before they were born. In every story, the thing had been a woman and a vampire, and had often provided help to Eirik and Mjoll. Then, around the time they had settled down, the vampire woman had simply vanished. It was said that she visited Eirik from time to time, always at night, and sometimes they would disappear for a season and he would return, but she never stayed very long. When they were young girls, Sigrun once thought she caught a glimpse of the vampire woman, standing beneath the full moons, dressed all in black with hair as black as the clothes she wore. For a moment she saw the figure, and as soon as she had rubbed her eyes, thinking that she was seeing things, the figure had vanished. As with most of everything that happened with the two girls, she had told Jonna about it, but they never saw such a figure again.

Until tonight. In the blink of an eye, the black figure was now standing ten feet away. They could make out a little bit more of the particulars under the moons' light. The figure was indeed clad in mostly black, with dark hair and a black cloak about her shoulders. Though it was no taller than Jonna, the speed by which it had moved before them that brought both women to a stand-still. If it could move that quickly, they feared what else it might be able to do. There was a gleam of red-yellow eyes and a sickening smell of decay lingered about it like a cloud.

"Out for a little walk, are we?" the figure asked. It was certainly a woman, but the voice was different than how Sigrun or Jonna had expected. It sounded like a young woman, near their own age, and there was no malice in that voice. The words she had spoken, had they been spoken under the light of day and without such fear, would have sounded like a jest.

"Who...what are you?" Jonna asked.

"It's her!" Sigrun whispered.

In a moment no longer than a heartbeat, the dark figure was now within arm's reach. But it remained standing still, gazing at them. One of the black-gloved hands conjured a ball of light that it raised up to the level of the vampire woman's face, casting light upon the young girls and upon the dark figure. The face that they saw was indeed of a young woman, no older than they were, with red lips even larger than Sigrun's. There was still an unsettling quality to that young woman's face: for her skin was not pale but white like the freshly-fallen snow, and her eyes, they saw, were red and yellow.

"My name is Serana," the young woman said to them, a sly grin upon her face. "And you have nothing to fear from me. I've already eaten and drunk tonight and you're Eirik's children."

"Are you going to tell him...?" Jonna asked.

"What, that you're running away from home?" Serana replied.

"We're not running away from home," Sigrun interjected.

"Could have fooled me," Serana stated, cocking an eyebrow.

"We're going north," Jonna spoke. "To Whiterun. I asked Sigrun to come with me as my sword-thane."

"Your parents approve of this?" Serana asked, with a knowing glance.

"I'm of age," Jonna replied. "And she will be soon." She gestured to Sigrun.

For a moment there was hesitation in the face of the vampire woman. Sigrun also had a moment of consternation herself: would the vampire waylay them? She was a vampire, and therefore long-lived; surely she had been around when Lucia left. Why had she not stopped her or tried to stop her? She wanted to know and, for a moment, hoped that Serana would waylay them.

"Well," Serana said at last. "I'm not your parents, but I will tell you this. The world is dangerous. I've seen more of it than you have, and it's not to be taken lightly."

"We're not," Jonna replied. "We're armed and have provisions in case of bad weather."

"Hmm," Serana mused. "There's something about you, Jonna, daughter of Jordis. Something that...well, reminds me of myself. Perhaps you could make it. Very well, I won't say a word about your departure. Be safe and may your ancestors be with you."

Jonna nodded, then began to leave with Sigrun behind her. As they were passing Serana, Sigrun paused and turned to the vampire woman.

"Were you there when Lucia left?" Sigrun asked.

"No," Serana shook her head. "But I heard about it afterwards from your father."

"Did you look for her?" Sigrun inquired.

"Yes," Serana replied, hanging her head as if in shame.

"Did you find her?" asked Sigrun. "Is she alright? Where is she?"

"She was alive the last time I saw her," Serana said. "But she doesn't want to be found. She told me that herself."

"Why would she not want to be found?" asked Sigrun.

"She didn't say," Serana replied. Her dark head turned over her shoulder, then back to Sigrun. "You'd better get going, your sister is already on her way down the hill."

Sigrun turned to leave and took two steps. But her desire for home was still strong and she paused yet again. Again she turned and saw the vampire woman standing there, a black shadow against the staves and lime walls of Lakeview Manor.

"Should I unlock the door for you?" Serana asked.

"No," Sigrun said, shaking her head gently. There was no more hesitation in her voice, not anymore. She turned away and scrambled after Jonna. The cold night air stung her lungs as she gasped through her teeth on her way after her sister. But she savored the cold air, unafraid of the pain. That moment, in speaking with Serana, Sigrun had a revelation.

Jonna, she knew, wanted to find her name in leaving home, and she had every right to do so if that was her wish. Eirik and Mjoll had told her, time and again, that she had a place at Lakeview Manor among them. But for whatever reason, Jonna needed to find herself in the world. That was enough for Jonna, daughter of Jordis. But for her, there had been less reason to leave. She was not yet eighteen, and the desire for her to leave and find her own fame was less than for Jonna. A few words with Serana and suddenly Sigrun realized that she had another purpose, one of her own that was beyond merely accompanying Jonna as an adventurer or a helper.

She had to find her step-sister Lucia.

* * *

No matter how strong they were from years of sparring, or by reason of their Nord blood or the stock of their parentage, Sigrun and Jonna were both wholly unprepared for long journeys. For the present, this knowledge had not occurred to them of yet. Both of them had gone as far as Riverwood, which was the small village on the southern edge of the hold of Whiterun, but this only during the daylight. In summer they had once gone near Helgen, which had been rebuilt in the years following the end of the Civil War. Eirik rarely spoke willingly of what happened at Helgen, but what the girls deemed was that, for him, his return to Skyrim and the journeys and adventures he had began there, and his world also had been turned upside down with the coming of the great black dragon. Though he rarely described what happened in detail, they guessed, from what happened afterwards, that at Helgen the dragons had returned.

The only sight of dragons the girls had ever seen was on Eirik's armor, which was made of the bones of dragons. Hearing him speak of them and how he wore their remains made them esteem him as the greatest warrior they had ever known. These thoughts were well and good from the safety of home, where dragons were only a legend. Now they were leaving home, going into the wide world, where such great dangers were common-place.

The night grew deeper and darker and faint clouds passed over the pale Secunda, casting a dull shadow upon the lands below. The girls had come down the hill and reached the road that passed from Oakwood to Riverwood. By now they had cleared the trees and were assaulted by chill, nightly winds from off Lake Ilinalta. It was then that the two girls realized just how cold the nights became away from the buffering trees of Falkreath. They bundled in their cloaks and continued on the road as it meandered a bit southward away from the shores of the lake. The land began to rise and they found some protection from the chill winds with the bare cliffs on either side as the land became rockier. By now the path had left the lakeside and was turning gently southeast. By and by it rounded again back towards the north before turning east again and terminating in a fork.

They had gone on for a long way and were both cold and weary, for they traveled at night with little sleep and were not used to traveling in such conditions. But Jonna seemed the least affected by the journey: or, if she did, she refused to show it outwardly. Sigrun made no complaint, but in her heart she was yearning to rest. Only Jonna's unflappable resolve to go onward kept her from even thinking about going back. But even that was to be tested here upon the road.

It was not for any unfamiliarity with the road or unhappy accident that would test Sigrun. She had come this way before and knew that the left-hand path would take her to Riverwood. Secunda was still hidden, but in the dull light of Masser they could still find their way thither if nothing happened. Jonna seemed to have a plan in mind and turned left almost as soon as they arrived at the cross-road. But while she was walking off that way, Sigrun halted and looked down the path leading to the right. Icy winds from mountains high breathed down from that path, the path down which she had never walked. In the distance, she thought she heard an echo, like the roar of some great beast high in the air. The voice was far away and distant, like the rumbling of thunder on the other side of the country, but it made Sigrun's heart quake.

"Hey!" Jonna called out. "Are you still there?" She jogged back to where Sigrun froze. "Don't get too far behind: we don't want you getting lost."

"Is that what I think it is?" Sigrun asked, gesturing to the path that led right.

"You mean the road to Helgen?" Jonna asked. "I should think so. I've looked at maps before and your mother's friend Aerin taught me how to read them. But we're not going that way. Come on, Sigrun: you look tired, we'll rest in a moment."

"We will?" Sigrun asked, a little more eagerly than she had intended.

"Aye," Jonna said, placing her hand on Sigrun's shoulder. "And the sooner we get there, the sooner you'll rest."

As it turned out, a moment was longer than either of them had hoped. As soon as they turned left, the road began to slope downward. They went slowly, for here the land was rocky and they could hear, afar off, the sound of a waterfall. Though it was still faint and distant, they guessed that they were coming now to the rapids where the White River flowed down from Lake Ilinalta into the golden fields of Whiterun. The land here fell steeply down to the river and they feared to tumble off down to a short end of their journey. Suddenly a larger, thicker cloud passed over Masser and the land was plunged into darkness.

This turned out to be the worst part of the beginning of their journey. With the darkness thick about them, they soon lost the path that they were following. It zig-zagged safely from one side of the hill to the other until it came to the edge of the White River at the bottom; but in the darkness, Sigrun and Jonna were making a straight line from where they last stood directly to a cliff-face. At Jonna's insistence, they held hands as they went forward and did not let go: if they ran out of light, separating would be the first step to disaster. They crept slowly forward, until suddenly Jonna set her foot out into nothingness and almost stumbled forward. Sigrun seized Jonna and pulled her back onto the lip of the cliff, then stumbled back and fell onto the dirt and grass behind her, with Jonna and her back-pack sprawled on top of her.

"Gods above!" Jonna loudly exclaimed. "That was close! It's a good thing I brought you along with me, eh? Where would I be without you?"

Sigrun said nothing until Jonna had crawled off her and they were both standing.

"So what do we do?" she finally asked.

"We can try to go around," Jonna stated. "But that would take time, and I can tell you're tired."

Sigrun felt embarrassed. "What makes you think I'm tired?"

"Who knows you better than I do?" Jonna retorted. "You've never been this way late at night, I understand. I still have hope that we can reach the Guardian Stones, where we'll make camp for the night. They're pretty secluded, we should be protected from any dangers from up the road."

"But can we find them in this darkness?" Sigrun asked. "I thought we had the moons for light, but now they're hidden."

"Then we'll have to do without them," sighed Jonna. "Now, if we haven't come the wrong way altogether, the Guardian Stones should be just below us at the bottom of this cliff. But it's too wide to jump: we'll have to clamber down easily."

"Do what?" exclaimed Sigrun. "Look around! It's dark, we can't see a thing."

"Then we'll go really slowly," Jonna replied, trying to hold back her own misgivings. She then took her pack down and removed from it a small bundle of rope. "Here, this should be useful. I'll tie one end to you and the other end to me: that way we won't lose each other in the darkness when we go down."

"Maybe," Sigrun added. "Or if one of us slips, we'll both go down."

"At least we'll be together, then," Jonna jokingly replied.

In the end, they got down to the bottom of the cliff by sitting down and sliding down the cliff carefully at its shallowest points. It was very difficult, sliding down in the darkness, and they both were sporting bruises by the time they made it to the bottom of the cliff: but they were both too exhausted to care. Once they reached the bottom, they crawled forward, feeling the way with their hands, until they touched the cold stone of the Guardian Stones. They rested against the stones for the night, wrapping themselves in their cloaks for they were too tired to open their packs. Jonna offered to take the first watch and Sigrun was more than willing to oblige.

Less than a minute later and Jonna stirred from her watch.

"Sigrun?" she asked. Sigrun groaned her reply, letting Jonna know that she was listening, but didn't open her eyes. "Are you having any second thoughts about this decision?"

"Are you?" Sigrun murmured.

"We've been lucky so far," Jonna noted. "No sight or sound of wolves at all. If we make it through the night without anything happening, we'll be very lucky indeed."

"Hmm," Sigrun sighed happily. "I wonder why."

"I don't know," Jonna returned. "But I wouldn't count on our luck holding out after Riverwood."

Sigrun didn't answer, for sleep was already claiming her. Inside she had misgivings and second thoughts about leaving home, but for the present she hadn't spoken of them, especially not to Jonna. She wondered just how much jesting Jonna really was when she claimed that she needed Sigrun to go with her. It was with these thoughts mulling about in her head that Sigrun at last fell asleep.

* * *

There was a great darkness all about, like a black mist descended upon the earth and blotted out all the light. The hairs on Sigrun's arms stood up in fright; there was something about this darkness that was unsettling than even the coldest, blackest of nights under one or two hidden moons. It seemed not that the moons were hidden, but that here there was no light; that light had never existed and would never come to be. From out of that darkness there came a voice:

 _Seek out Secret-Fire in Whiterun. Ask him about the Secret Tower._

With that, Sigrun awoke from sleep. It was a foggy morning and the light was covered in gray mist, but the gloom of her dream was gone. As she opened her eyes, she saw the cliff down which they had clambered during the night. It seemed less imposing in the light of day. As her eyes scanned the top of the cliff, she came to a halt. Up there loomed the silhouette of a large wolf, black against the sullen gray sky. It didn't move, but she feared what would happen if they moved. Over the sound of the rushing White River from the cliff behind the standing stones came the menacing growl of the wolf above their heads. Sigrun feared that she wouldn't have enough time to wake Jonna before the beast pounced on them. With bated breath and eyes focused on the wolf, Sigrun's hand slowly reached for her sword.

Suddenly the growling ceased, and the wolf disappeared. From over the cliff there appeared a tall figure, hooded and cloaked all in black, leaning upon a tall staff. Upon reaching the brink of the cliff, it paused and looked down at the two sleeping young women. From where she lay, Sigrun could not see a face: the stranger's head was covered in a hood, and the sullen sky shone no light upon the face beneath that hood. She stirred from her place, but suddenly the dark figure turned about and walked away from the lip of the cliff. Without thinking, she rose from her place and jogged up the path that led up the cliff: the path they had completely missed that night. At the top, there was no sign of the hooded stranger: not even a faint image of one walking away into the mist. The wolf also was missing.

"Hello?" Sigrun called out into the mist. "I wanted to say thank you for chasing that wolf off. Hello? Come back!"

By this time, Jonna was awake and calling up from the bottom of the cliff, by the standing stones, eager to know why Sigrun was awake and shouting. With one wary look back at the mist, she made her way back down the path and told Jonna of what had happened.

"I don't think it was a good idea to go running off after this stranger," Jonna said.

"But he helped us," Sigrun replied.

"How do we know he meant to help us?" Jonna asked. "You yourself said the wolf disappeared and no sooner but the stranger appeared. You know, there _are_ werewolves in the wilderness."

"Then why didn't he attack us?" Sigrun returned.

"I don't know!" dismissed Jonna. "Who knows what these creepy old wizards want, by Shor's balls! But I don't think it's a good idea to go running after every stranger we encounter, shouting after them. The farther away we get from home, the more dangerous it will be. I need you with me, alright?"

"Yes," Sigrun breathed, nodding her head in confirmation. She was still not convinced that the hooded stranger was all that dangerous.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Sigrun asked, as they began picking up their things for the next stage of the journey.

"First, we see these stones in the light of day," Jonna stated. "Then, we make for Riverwood. We should arrive there before high noon. Maybe we can get some information there at the inn. A message that needs delivering, carriage driver who needs an armed escort, a wild animal that needs putting down: at the very least, we can learn about what's going on in the wide world."

"And then where?" asked Sigrun.

"Wherever the road may take us," Jonna replied with a smile. "That's the beauty of being on our own: we can go anywhere in Skyrim. Gods, anywhere in Tamriel, if we're lucky!"

"What about Whiterun?" Sigrun inquired.

"Sure, we can go to Whiterun," Jonna said. "See the Gildergleam, the Great Hall of Jorvaskr. We might even learn more from there than we could from Riverwood. Whiterun's a proper city, and more people pass through there than in Riverwood. Once we've had our fill of mead at the Sleeping Giant Inn and learned all that we can, we'll be on our way to Whiterun."

Sigrun smiled, whispering a quiet thank you as Jonna turned about and walked over to the standing stones. One by one, Jonna placed her hand upon each of the stones, with Sigrun following after her. When Jonna came to the Warrior Stone, she placed her hand upon it and let out a grin. Sigrun placed her hand upon it and a strange feeling of euphoria came over her. Any fear she might have had about leaving home seemed faint and distant: all that she felt now, with her hand upon the stone, was a sense of strength, as though she was touching the very bones of the earth itself and drawing strength from it.

"I suppose this is as good a sign as any," Jonna added. "You ready?"

Sigrun smiled. "Last one to the Sleeping Giant buys drinks?"

"You're on!"

* * *

 **(AN: I had a sudden brain-storming session, and decided to make a few changes. I don't know how it will turn out [or if i'll be around long enough to finish this], but might as well go full-speed ahead.)**


	3. Rumors of War

**(AN: I know i've probably had a chapter with that title in the previous stories, but oh well. Horay for Biblical imagery on my part!)**

 **(This chapter will, hopefully, not drag on too much, as we revisit some of the things that have happened in the years since _The Dragonborn Emperor_.)**

* * *

 **Rumors of War**

The morning was still early when the two women came up to the wall of the Sleeping Giant Inn: Sigrun had longer strides and had, for the most part, outpaced Jonna as their path took them downhill, but Jonna was shorter and could run faster, and so she came out victorious. Panting and sweating from their exertion, they wiped their foreheads and Sigrun began counting the septims in her pouch: as the young women had worked with Eirik in his wood-cutting, they often received a portion of the earnings he made off the wood. The "lion's share", as the largest portion was called in Elsweyr and Cyrodiil, went to Eirik, as he supported the entire household with that money. Any gifts of goodwill he received outside of his woodsman's work went to the Sons of Skyrim.

Inside the Sleeping Giant, they found that it wasn't very busy. A short Bosmer hunter in one corner, devouring a steak, was the only one here who wasn't a Nord. Two men sat at the bar, who apparently were merchants on their way to Dawnstar from the Rift: one was an older man with a bald head and long gray beard, the other was younger, with short, reddish hair and a thin, braided goatee. Behind the counter was the bar-keep; another old man with long, gray hair and a short beard.

"Food and mead for two," Sigrun ordered, placing the septims on the table.

"And will you be wanting rooms as well?" the man behind the bar asked.

"Not today," Jonna added. "We'll be going north once we've eaten, thank you."

The two young women took their seats at the bar, seated opposite the two merchants and nearest the door. While they waited for their food, the older of the two merchants turned towards the newcomers and addressed them.

"So you're going north, then?" he inquired.

"Yes, that's true," Sigrun replied. At this, Jonna leaned in and whispered in her ear: "Don't be too gabby when it comes to our business."

"I don't mean to pry, lass," the old merchant continued. "It's only, well, Dag and I are headin' that way, too. And you two look like right proper shield-maidens; the kind as can take care of themselves in a fight."

"Yes, we are," Jonna added. She then noticed the young man looking at them. She shot him a furtive glance, but said nothing.

"Was only wondering 'cuz, if we be goin' the same road," the old man continued. "Perhaps we could hire you as bodyguards. The road's ain't as safe as they used to be, and we'd be willin' to pay you." At this, Jonna seemed more interested and less defensive than before.

"We were planning to go as far as Whiterun," Sigrun answered. "After that..."

"We'll go with you the rest of the way," Jonna interjected.

At this point, Orgnar the inn-keeper arrived at the bar with their food and drink. Jonna began devouring the food hungrily, while Sigrun was more interested in talking to the two merchants, and picked at her food while she chatted.

"So what brings you north?" Sigrun asked.

"We're traders," the old man stated. "Sori is my name, True-Hand I am called because people of my business. Zenithar has been good to me in my many years. This young man is Dag, my apprentice. He's a hard worker, but he still has much to learn. We're on our way to Dawnstar in the far north: lake fish from Riften catch a fine price in the northern holds, where the Imperial tariffs make everything damn expensive."

"Tariffs?" Sigrun inquired, swallowing down a bite of the loaf of bread on her plate.

"The Emperor's new taxes!" Dag stated.

"They ain't new, boy," Sori interjected. "They've been in place for seventeen years." He turned back to Sigrun. "After the Civil War ended, the Emperor ordered that Skyrim be forced to pay the Empire...Shor's balls, what was that damned word? Repair-something..."

"Reparations, master," Dag added.

"There, that's it!" Sori exclaimed. "Reparations. The Emperor ordered the people of Skyrim were to pay reparations to the Empire for starting a war." He turned away and spoke aloud, but was speaking more to himself than to anyone in particular. "It was one man that started the War, and yet the Empire demands that all of Skyrim pay for it. Ain't right, I say." He turned back to the women. "Apologies. I doubt you were around during the War."

"No, I wasn't," Sigrun replied, then took a sip of mead.

"The Civil War in Skyrim," Sori began. "Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, challenged the High King to a duel and won. Then the Empire declared it murder and brought their legions to kill Ulfric: but by that time, he had gained quite a following of men and women who believed in what he stood for."

"And what did he stand for?" Sigrun asked. She had heard of Ulfric from her father, but their encounters had been brief and Eirik always felt cowed in the presence of the Bear of Markarth. Indeed, though her father was the 'Dragonborn', he often spoke of the Thu'um of Ulfric as being greater than his own; strong enough to shake the stones underfoot. She had never thought to ask him anymore, especially about what Ulfric stood for.

"You'll never get a straight answer out of anyone," Sori replied. "Some say he was Ysmir reborn, sent to drive away the scum that have destroyed our beloved country. Quite a few called him a fool, a power-hungry tyrant who wanted to become king himself. If you want my opinion, I say that Ulfric believed Skyrim should be free to govern her own affairs." He sighed. "I was a foolish, cynical man back then. I thought that he had good intentions, but foolishly believed that, no matter who won the War, it wouldn't change the market that existed."

"And did it?" Sigrun asked.

"Aye, it did," Sori stated. "The dark elves of the Grey Quarter in Windhelm stormed the Palace of the Kings and beheaded Ulfric in front of the citizens of the city. The Empire was grateful to them for ending the war for them, so they left Windhelm in their hands. For a time it seemed that peace would return to Skyrim, but that was a pipe dream. Eastmarch is overrun by dark elves; more of them come from mainland Morrowind. I didn't think there were so many after the Red Year. They slew many of the inhabitants of Eastmarch, but many more they enslaved. In the west, the madmen of the Reach, the Forsworn, slew the Silver-Blood Clan and claimed Markarth as their own. And the same thing has happened: more killings, dead-bodies stuck up on pikes at the borders." He turned to Sigrun and Jonna, having drifted off to stare at the wall during his rambling. "Sorry again."

"Go on," Sigrun gently prodded.

"Then the Emperor, the new Emperor," Sori continued. "I don't know how it happened. They said Titus Mede died in his sleep of 'white fever', upon returning from his journey to Skyrim. Absolute horse-shit! Outsiders have been coming to Skyrim since who knows how long, and no one's died of any 'white fever.'" He apologized for rambling, then continued. "The new Emperor hates Skyrim with a passion! He's the one who's raised taxes nine times, to pay for 'reparations' for the War. He's brought in these violent half-orcs, many of them no better than tramps into our cities. Most of the large cities have the Imperial weapons ban enforced; a thing ain't never happened in our lifetime. The northern holds have been crippled the most!"

"How?" asked Sigrun.

"Whiterun, Hjaalmarch, Dawnstar, Winterhold and Haafingar," Sori said, counting them out with his fingers. "Five of the largest holds in Skyrim, and all of them under Imperial thumb. Used to be a man could do an honest day's work and get paid what his employer agreed upon: any foul-play'd be brought before the Jarl. But in the last seventeen years, the Emperor has enforced a new fixed wage, they're callin' it. Said it was to 'protect workers interests', whatever that means. But each year the taxes get higher, and new taxes are added, along with penalties enforced by the Jarls in the Empire's pocket. Used to be a man could do business with whoever he chose: now, it's all gone wrong."

"What's gone wrong?" Sigrun asked.

"You sure to ask a lot of questions, lass," Sori sighed. "If this keeps on, we might be here until nightfall, or until I lose me voice."

"I've never left Falkreath," Sigrun said. "I know very little about the outside world, and I want to know more. If it's all the same with you, I could buy you a drink to help loosen your tongue."

Sori laughed. "I'll take you up on that!" Sigrun then called for Orgnar to bring Sori another drink. The old man, warming up to his audience, continued.

"Sixteen years ago or so," he continued. "The Empire inacted a new law throughout the provinces: folk as did business with Nords would be heavily fined. Here in Skyrim, that's a death sentence. With taxes so high, a man cannot afford to pay the fines for selling their wares to Nords. Many shops went out of business, or were forcefully closed down by the Imperial soldiers 'indefinitely stationed' in Skyrim 'for our protection.' Poor fish-mongers in Dawnstar can't afford to catch enough for themselves, not to mention the rest of the town."

"Please, good lady," Dag interjected. "Forgive my master. He tends to ramble, as you have noticed. He has such hair-brained notions..."

"It ain't hair-brained, it's the truth!" Sori insisted. "The new Emperor would see us all starve to death from all the taxes he can conceive."

"With all due respect, master, that's ridiculous!" Dag returned. "I mean, if Emperor Crixus wanted us dead, wouldn't he just do it outright, instead of wasting time with taxes?"

"Of course not!" Sori replied. "The Empire couldn't be bothered to win the Civil War on their own, they pressed our own men to fight their war for them. Don't it make sense they'd try to get rid of us without liftin' a finger?"

"That's ridiculous!" Dag dismissed.

"Oh?" Sori asked. "And what's your answer for these taxes? Do you honestly believe that, after almost eighteen years, the Empire _still_ ain't got enough reparations out of us? Why are they still raisin' taxes and creatin' new ones?"

"Maybe they need the money?" Dag returned, more than flustered. "I don't know, master, but anything is better than what you're suggesting."

"And what could the Empire need the money for, hmm?" asked Sori. "Ain't they rebuilt their holds, or counties, or whatever they're called, from the Dominion War? Why do they need more?"

"I say that the lad is right," another voice spoke.

All eyes turned around to the little Bosmer hunter, who had risen up from the table. One hand was wiping the blood from his mouth, and the other rested at his side. But for some reason, perhaps the pitch-black eyes he bore, the women were a little discomfited at his sudden appearance.

"Right about what?" Jonna asked. Though she had been eating, her ears had not been idle.

"The Empire raises taxes on the Nords because it needs the money," the Bosmer replied. "You _Nords_ cannot accept things the way they are. It is best that you learned to live with the new taxes and not complain about them."

"Or else what?" asked Sori. "We've overthrown tyrants before, you know."

"War is coming," the Bosmer stated. "I've fled the forests of Valenwood to escape its onslaught. The Dominion has patiently waited, biding its time for the moment to strike: that moment will come soon. Perhaps before the year is out. If the Empire doesn't raise the taxes, it cannot raise an army to defend your ungrateful hides."

"The Dominion will not attack Skyrim," Orgnar stated. "It's too remote and their armies will have difficulty crossing the mountains."

"That didn't stop the Dominion from takin' Solitude at the end of the Civil War," grumbled Sori.

"The world is changing," the Bosmer said portentously. "What was once thought secure will soon be tested. If your human Empire cannot protect the lands of men, then the world of men will fall as well. Who knows but that a Fifth Era will soon dawn, one that men will not live to witness." With that, the Bosmer walked out of the inn, leaving them in stunned silence.

"What do you think about what he said?" Jonna asked.

"He's right," Dag stated. "The Empire will use the tax money they've raised to build an army. They will defend us."

"And I say we should look to our arms," Sori added. "Men, women, children, elders. If there is a war coming, we may soon find it on our very door-step."

"Do you think it will really come to war?" asked Sigrun.

"If the Dominion wants war, war it will have," Sori stated. "They brought the Empire to its knees in the Dominion War, there's no reason they won't try to do so again. The yellow-eyes hate us."

"But there's one thing we have that they don't," Sigrun proudly stated. "Whether the Empire stands or falls, Skyrim will not fall as long as the Dragonborn lives." At this, old Sori laughed. Sigrun looked perplexed at this response. "Why do you laugh?"

"I laugh because an inquisitive woman like yourself believes in fairy tales," he returned.

"The Dragonborn isn't a myth," Sigrun stated. "He's real. He is my father."

"Oh, everyone would like to say that, wouldn't they?" Sori chuckled, his beard wagging as he shook his head.

"It's true!" both Sigrun and Jonna said at once.

"Didn't you used to say there was one who was called Dragonborn during the Civil War?" Dag asked.

"That's him!" Sigrun stated. "That's my father, Eirik Bjornsson!"

"Your father is Eirik Bjornsson, firstborn of the Sons of Skyrim?" exclaimed Sori in surprise.

"Yes," Sigrun nodded, a proud smile on her face.

"If I was you, young woman," Sori stated, a serious look on his face. "I'd be careful about who I told that news to, nor go about bein' proud of your lineage."

"Why?" Sigrun asked. "I have no reason to be ashamed of who my father is."

"And gods hope you never have cause to be ashamed," Sori added. "But your father's name ain't worth more than cow shit in some parts in Skyrim. So don't go waving it about like some banner you're proud of."

"What reason would people have to hate her father?" Jonna asked. "He's the Dragonborn, he's the leader of the Sons of Skyrim..."

"Aye," Sori nodded. "Most of whom were former Stormcloaks. And as for his title, it don't mean nothin' to the folk in Skyrim. Some of 'em even blame him for what happened in Markarth and Windhelm."

"What did happen in Markarth?" Sigrun asked. "My father never mentioned going there."

"As I said before," Sori stated. "The Forsworn leader Madanach was broken out of prison, but no one knows who did it. After he escaped, he rallied the Reachmen and took the city. After that, it was a blood-bath, from what I hear. Unlike the dark elves in Windhelm, the Forsworn slaughtered all the Nords in Markarth. Remember what I said about heads on pikes?"

"Now I remember," Sigrun nodded, feeling rather foolish for not paying attention.

"But how was that Eirik's fault?" Jonna asked. "Especially if he never went to Markarth."

"Didn't say it was his fault," Sori returned. "I just said folk think it's his fault, on account of him being a former Stormcloak. It ain't just that, though. Some blame him for keepin' the Forsworn and dark elves in our lands a'purpose."

"Now why would he do that?" asked Jonna.

"Who knows?" Sori shrugged. "Some say he's an elf-lover himself, others that he got too much learnin' in Cyrodiil, it made him soft. Some even say that he's nothin' more than a charlatan, gettin' rich off the misery of others."

"That's a lie!" Sigrun shouted, slamming her fist on the table. "My father would never do that to anyone!"

"I ain't say I believe it, I'm just sayin' what I've been told," Sori replied, holding up his hands dismissively.

"You have to admit, though," said Dag. "It does make sense."

"What makes sense?" Jonna asked, fingering the bread knife.

"There are rumors that this Eirik Bjornsson fled to Windhelm before it fell," Dag said. "Then a few days later, Ulfric's dead, the Dunmer take it over, call it New Gnisis, and he's turned tail and fled. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Wonder what?" Jonna returned, standing up from her seat, knife in hand and a look of rage in her eyes.

"Jons, no," Sigrun said, placing one arm out to assuage her friend.

"Let me go!" Jonna protested. "I'll wipe that grin off that little milk-drinker's face if he talks about your da like that!"

"Ain't no need for a brawl," Sori interjected. "The lad didn't mean no harm. He just don't know when to keep his dumb ideas to himself. He'll apologize..." He turned back to Dag. "Won't you, lad?"

"I didn't do anything..."

"Apologize to the lady!" demanded Sori.

"My apologies, my lady," sighed Dag.

"There's no need," Sigrun shook her head. "It was just a few words."

"You can't let them talk about your father like that, Sig!" Jonna replied.

"We've promised to protect them on the road," Sigrun said. "There may be a time where we'll have to defend da's honor, but it's not now." Jonna scowled at Dag as she lowered the knife and returned to her seat.

"Well, then," Sori stated. "If that's all settled, I think we're done here. If you ladies follow me, I'll show you to our cart and we'll be underway."

"Good," Jonna added, glaring towards Dag. "The sooner we reach Dawnstar, the better."

"Oh, we won't reach Dawnstar for another two days," Sori stated. "Not including our journey from here to Whiterun. We'll likely spend the night there and be on our way in the morning."

"Gods give me strength," Jonna sighed as she pushed her finished plate back towards Orgnar. Sigrun had also finished and added her plate and cup as well, but while Jonna followed the two merchants out of the Sleeping Giant, she lingered at the bar.

"You didn't happen to see a wizard dressed in black pass through this town, did you?" she asked. Orgnar shook his head. With that, she left the Sleeping Giant Inn and made her way around back, where she found Jonna and the two merchants by their carriage. Dag was helping Sori hitch the horses, who had been drinking at the water-trough, while Jonna was fingering the haft of her axe.

"There you are!" Jonna exclaimed. "I was wondering what was keeping you."

"I wanted to ask about the stranger we encountered at the Stones," Sigrun replied. "But there wasn't any news."

"I'm telling you, it's nothing good," Jonna repeated. "Either a wizard or a werewolf."

"What's that about werewolves?" Sori asked. "Do you think we'll meet 'em on the road?"

"If we do," Jonna confidently stated. "We'll let you peddle their hides."

"Ha ha!" Sori laughed. "That's the spirit! Now climb in the back of the cart, we ain't got all day."

The two young women placed their things inside the cart, then climbed into the back, with Dag climbing into the front with his master. Sori then cracked the reins and the wagon set off at a swaying rumble along the cobble-stone main-street of Riverwood.

* * *

 **(AN: So here is another chapter update. Thankfully shorter than the last two, but i've had difficulty getting any writing or music-recording done. And it doesn't seem to be improving any time soon.)**

 **(I had planned from the beginning that Eirik was going to be generally ignored or hated across Skyrim. This parallels real-life situations, where the war-hero is reviled upon completion of their great task. More on why as the story progresses, as i don't want to give too much away at the starting gate.)**


	4. First Blood

**(AN: My version of Skyrim is very large indeed. The problem with that is, of course, the time it takes to travel between cities, especially if you want to make the story "realistic". As much as i hate dungeon-crawling, making chapters of nothing but traveling from one place to another feels excessive, especially if nothing important to the story happens during the journey [lol, i know: how dare i call anything "excessive" when my _Elder Scrolls_ stories are some of the longest of all the ones i've made]. On another note, i myself made a journey of twenty miles on foot in about 5 hours.)**

 **(Two additional notes: first, ulcerative colitis sucks. It literally drains you of energy, which gives me another [and more concerning] reason for why i'm slow on the updates, because i'm usually very exhausted. Also, the _Legion_ expansion for _World of Warcraft_ came out [sort of] and my brother has been hijacking my laptop to play the pre-launch events. I've always wanted to do a _Warcraft_ -based story, but that never came to fruition. Probably because i don't have many good ideas, i don't like my brother's revisionist history of the Scarlet Crusade, and if i say what i would like about the canon characters [ie. Garrosh is a whiny, irresponsible war-monger, Jaina needs to get over herself, Thrall is still my number one guy, and Sylvanas will betray everyone], i might as well stop writing altogether. But, in regards to _Elder Scrolls_ , there was something i'd like to say. On the _WoWwiki_ page, in the "related notes" section on the Draenei article, it likens them...to the Dunmer! I mean, the Draenei are the nicest race in _Warcraft_ besides the Tauren, whereas the Dunmer are known for enslaving other races and being all around a-holes.)**

* * *

 **First Blood**

It had taken five hours to walk from the Guardian Stones to Riverwood, and it would take just as long, if not longer, to go by cart from there to Whiterun. But neither Sigrun nor Jonna cared about how long it would take. The cool, early spring air of First Seed was a welcome change from the heights in Falkreath. There they had cool haze under trees and mountain winds off the lake. For a while, they doffed their fur cloaks and enjoyed the mild temperature.

"You might wanna put them cloaks back on, ladies," Sori True-Hand suggested. "Once we reach the plains o' Whiterun, the winds'll make you forget all o' this here fine weather."

The cart turned the bend and began to make its way down the winding path into the plains below. For the moment, sparse trees from the eaves of Riverwood concealed the valley, which appeared only as a golden mirage of light between the leafy boughs. The sound of the White River rushing off to their right was the only sound they could hear. As they turned to make the last lap down out of the woods and into the valley, they saw a lone person standing in the midst of the road.

"This don't bode well," Sori muttered. "Now's the chance to earn your pay, ladies. First, get down. Don't let 'em see you. Don't come up till I say so."

Sigrun and Jonna shrugged, then hid themselves behind the hide tarp. The cart rumbled along, until the lone figure became larger and larger. Soon they were almost upon the newcomer: here Sori called for a halt, and pulled the reins on the horse. It came to a lurching halt, as the road was still sloping downhill. The figure in the road was seen to be clad in green and brown, with a hood thrown to cover the head and face. In its hand was a long bow, standing on one end.

"Good afternoon!" Sori announced. "If ye don't mind, now, clear the road. We're inna bit o' a hurry, see?"

"Actually, I do," the stranger said. The voice was the voice of a young woman. "This road belongs to the Sisters of Strife. And seeing that you're a man, you're going to have to pay a toll."

"Bullshit!" Sori retorted. "This here road belongs to the Jarl o' Whiterun. This is a shakedown and I ain't havin' none o' it!"

"Then we'll kill you, your boy and take everything you have in your cart," the woman retorted. "It's your choice, little man: part with a few of your goods, or part with your life and all of your goods."

"'We?'" scoffed Sori. "Yer just one, b*tch." The woman smiled, then whistled into the trees. From behind the cart there appeared two more figures, clad in green and brown. Both of them wore hoods and bore staves and spears in their hands.

"Now we are three," the first woman said confidently.

"Master," Dag whispered. "Maybe we should consider..." But with a furtive glance, Sori silenced his erring apprentice.

"C'mon out now!" Sori shouted. With this, Sigrun and Jonna leaped from the back of the cart: Jonna with axe in hand and Sigrun wielding the borrowed sword. Both of them stood in battle stances with their shields upon their backs and their backs to each other: Jonna eyed the leader while Sigrun watched the two who had appeared at the rear. At first the three bandits readied themselves to fight, and the woman at the front of the wagon plucked an arrow from the quiver at her hip, set it to the bow and drew back. When they saw that the defenders were also women, they paused. Their eyes shifted warily from one to another and back to their leader.

"Well?" asked Sori, noticing their hesitation. "What are ye waitin' fer?"

"Stand aside, sisters," the first woman said. "We have no quarrel with you. Only with that fat oaf and his mewling lover."

"Well, ain't _that_ a shit, now?" Jonna retorted. "Turns out we're defending this man and his cart. So if you want them, you're gonna have to go through us."

"You are a woman, sister," the first woman replied, her voice strained. "I must give you the road."

Sigrun kept her eyes aimed at the two bandits before her, while Jonna suppressed a chuckle.

"Some bandits you are!" she mocked. "I'll be sure to tell everyone I meet in Whiterun to take a shield-maiden with them if they're on the road."

The three women slowly backed away into the surrounding trees; always with their faces towards the wagon, though they often looked at each other with questioning glances. Once they were gone, Jonna threw her axe into the bole of a tree with an angry shout.

"What was that for, Jons?" Sigrun asked.

"I'm pissed," the shorter woman replied, walking over to the tree to retrieve her axe. "I was _hoping_ for a fight."

"I only ever heard of the Sisters of Strife," Dag stated. "Never thought they were real."

"They be real, lad," Sori returned. "And a right bunch o' cowardly hussies, they be!"

Jonna bit her lower lip, suppressing a retort as she tried to remember that they were being paid for their work. Sigrun, meanwhile, had sheathed her sword and was climbing back into the cart. After retrieving her axe, Jonna followed her and the cart continued its wobbling course.

They carried on for about five minutes, then suddenly Sigrun gasped. Jonna turned to see what it was, but she too was struck silent. Off to their left the trees had faded and the golden plains of Whiterun could at last be seen. To the north and east high mountains rose as the borders of the valley, while to the west the plains rolled on like ocean waves, endlessly soaring until they were lost to their eyes. A cold wind blew from the tree-less valley before them, sending the women's long hair soaring like flags of earth and sunlight.

"Is that the plains of Whiterun?" Sigrun asked.

"Aye, that be Whiterun," Sori replied.

She smiled. "I've never seen a place so vast without any trees. I'll wager you could see so much farther from the middle of the plains."

Jonna was also spellbound by the sight. However, while Sigrun's eyes lingered on the plains, hers were drawn along the mountains going eastward. At the eastern end of the mountain range, right where the trees continued back southeastward, there was one large mountain that climbed higher than all the rest. Its sides were covered in snow, but its peak was lost among the clouds.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jonna asked.

"The Throat o' the World? That it is," answered Sori.

"We've all heard stories about that mountain," Jonna said. "But we've never seen it this close before. It really does look like it touches the sky."

Meanwhile, Sigrun had been looking across the plains. Near the eastern end of the plains, she saw the silver line of the White River winding off down into the plains and disappearing towards the mountains of the east. To the west of the river were many ordered farms, in the midst of which was a hill. Upon that hill was what appeared a wall of wood and a glint of gold.

"And what's that?" Sigrun asked, pointing towards the hill. "Is that the city of Whiterun?"

"Aye," Sori nodded. "We should be there jus' before nightfall. The tavern there, the Bannered Mare, is one o' the best in all o' Skyrim. While merchants aren' allowed to peddle their wares to Nords, there ain't been no tax on beer. That suits many jus' fine."

"That's better," Jonna said. "What can you tell us about Whiterun?"

"Ruled by Jarl Nelkir," Sori replied. "Bastard son o' Balgruuf, the former Jarl. Though don' call 'im that to his face, mind you. An' don' you bring up the death o' his father neither. He's as dangerous as his advisor, the Imperial guv'nor Nestor. Ever since the new Emperor took power, he's had guv'nors in every hold in Skyrim, along with a tidy garrison o' Imperial soldiery. They enforce Imperial law. You'll know jus' what that means by and by, I'll wager."

* * *

The hours passed as the wagon bumbled down the path into the plains. By and by the road forked into three paths: the path leading straight ahead and the rightmost path seemed to follow the White River for a while, then the rightmost path turned due east and vanished into the mountains while the straight path continued northward. It was the left-hand path that Sori took, turning the cart down a wide, cobblestone road that led westward, through several farms. As they rode past the farms, Sigrun noticed that the farmers worked with heads down, and those who looked up at them had grim expressions upon their faces.

"Why are they so grim?" Sigrun asked.

"Imperial law," Sori replied. "What they work fer they won' see, even to feed themselves. It...gods, no!" Sori's voice was full of horror, as though he had seen some new dreaded devilry.

"What is it?" Jonna asked.

"Look fer yerselves, lassies," Sori grimly stated, his hand gesturing to the right-side of the cart.

The girls looked and their mouths hung open. They were now close enough that they could see the wooden walls of Whiterun. The sun was westering, and long shadows were cast on the eastern side of the city, but there was yet enough light to see what was hanging from the walls of the city. Bodies were hanging upon the city-walls: some of them were held up by their hands, others by their feet. Most of them appeared to be dead, but from the agonizing groans, there were still some hanging upon the walls that were still alive. Beneath one of the bodies were two Imperial soldiers in the uniform of the Red Legions, and two other men standing before them. One was an old man, and he seemed to be on his knees, pleading with the Legion soldiers. The other was younger and standing behind the older man. Whatever was being negotiated didn't turn out well, and one of the Legionnaires struck the old man to the ground. The younger man tried to intervene, but the other Legionnaire struck him in the stomach, then, taking hold of the younger man's long hair with one hand, began punching him in the face over and over with the pommel of his gladius; the short-sword common among the Legion. The other soldier then took a hammer and broke the old man's knees.

"Please!" one of the living men up on the wall cried out. "Leave him alone! Kill me instead!"

"Oh not yet, Nord scum!" the soldier with the hammer retorted. "You'll watch your father die on his knees, like a dog! And you will stay up there until you die a slow, painful death." Throwing the hammer away, the soldier began laughing as he struck the old man with his fist, ripped out his beard with his hands, and pissed upon him as he fell to the ground.

"Look away, lass," Sori warned. "Ain't nothing a lady needs seein'."

"Who said we were ladies?" Jonna asked grimly.

"What horrible thing did that poor man commit," Sigrun exclaimed, her voice will with disgust. "To be strung up to die like that?"

"Who knows," Sori shrugged. "Nobody bothers askin' 'bout these things no more, they happen so oft'n. The guv'nors demand that those breakin' laws be dealt with accordin'ly. Usually a Jarl jus' outlaws a man, now it's the death penalty fer everythin'. Hard times, indeed."

"Why doesn't the Jarl do something about this?" asked Jonna.

"Nelkir is closer to guv'nor Nestor than to his own people," Sori stated. "He turns a blind eye to what they do, though that ain't want the rumors says."

"What do the rumors say?" Jonna inquired.

Sori looked about this way and that, handed the reins to Dag, then leaned back towards the women. He whispered, speaking as though he expected to be heard, though there were no ears about than the four of them.

"They say," Sori whispered. "There's some devilry 'bout Jarl Nelkir. They say he knows things, things no mortal could possibly know. Rumors say he uses his powers to spy on his people, reveal secrets 'bout 'em, then sell 'em to the Imperials."

"Son of a b*tch," Jonna muttered.

Sigrun, meanwhile, was fixated on the horrifying scene beyond. The two soldiers had now thrown aside the two bodies: the old man was bloodied and broken, while the younger man's golden hair was stained pink and he had no more face.

"I said look away!" Sori insisted. "You'll draw their ire if they see ye."

The cart pulled up to the stables just outside of the city of Whiterun, even as the sun was on its way down. As they were approaching the stables, a bald dark elf approached their wagon.

"Fifty septims, up front," the elf demanded. "You know the rules."

Sori opened up his purse and handed out the gold septims as requested. The elf suddenly halted when he saw the women in the back.

"I didn't know you were dealing in slaves, True-Hand," the elf chuckled. "I know a mer in New Gnisis who will pay a fine price for Nord women."

"We're not slaves!" Jonna retorted.

"Watch your tongue, _n'wah_ b*tch!" the elf sneered. "I don't care what the Empire says, all your kind are slaves!"

"Lloryth, that's enough!" Sori shouted. "They ain't slaves, they're our guards."

"Pity," Lloryth mockingly pouted. "I was going to let you and your little lover here keep your wagon in the stables at the usual toll. But, seeing as you've managed to gain enough wealth to hire guards, we'll have to charge you extra, won't we? Fifty septims for each of your guards: that's one hundred septims."

"A hundred!" Sori exclaimed. "Now you listen here..."

"I agree, too little," Lloryth returned. "One hundred for each guard."

"That's outrageous!" Sori retorted.

"Two hundred each," Lloryth stated, a broad smile on his face. "I can do this all night, if you'd like, filthy _n'wah_."

"You fuckin' gray cunt!" Sori shouted.

"You're not making this easier for yourself, are you?" Lloryth returned, shaking his head and smiling fiendishly at them. "Four hundred apiece. And an additional two hundred for your insolent remarks about my elvish heritage."

"You're enjoyin' this, ain't you?" Sori growled.

"I'm only doing my duty," mocked Lloryth. "And I'm more than willing to let you tie your cart at the stables, after you've given me these two _n'wahs_...oh, and after you've paid me two hundred for your prejudiced remarks."

"Is it your duty to shake down everyone wanting to tie their carts at the stables of Whiterun?" Jonna retorted, climbing out of the cart.

"You'll shut your mouth, _n'wah_ whore..." Lloryth began, but was suddenly cut short as Jonna pushed him up against the wooden pillars of the stable, the blade of her axe pushed against his head.

"Or you'll what?" Jonna retorted. "Go on, say it. I dare you."

"Please, don't hurt me!" Lloryth quailed. "I didn't mean any harm! Why are you Nord _n'wahs_ so violent towards anyone different than you? I was only trying to bring about a safe solution, without involving the _GUA_..." Before his cry escaped his lips, Jonna put her one hand upon his mouth while the other hand brought the axe back and struck his bald head with the flat-side. As he was dazed, Jonna struck him again, sending him down to the floor. She then turned to Sigrun and gestured for her to come down and help her. The two then carried him back into the stables and set him down next to one of the corralled horses.

"What was that for?" Dag asked, as Sori brought the cart into the stables and tied the horse and wagon up at the hitching post. But Jonna shushed him with a finger to her hand. Just a minute later, the two Imperial soldiers appeared, wiping blood off their hands.

"What's going on here?" the one that had brutalized the old man asked. "Thought we heard some kind of struggle."

"Ain't nothin', good soldiers," Sori interjected. "One of them horses kicked poor Lloryth in the head. Knocked him clean out, it did."

"Can you understand a word of what this old fuck's saying?" the second soldier asked. "Sounds like a bloody animal."

"I said..." Sori began.

"We heard you the first time!" the first soldier retorted. "And who are these young girls with you?"

"Our bodyguards," Sori replied.

"If you plan on entering Whiterun tonight," the first guard said. "You tell them to hand over their weapons."

"You heard 'em, ladies," Sori grumbled.

Sigrun gripped the hilt of the borrowed sword in her sheath reluctantly. It was not hers to give away, and if they didn't return it, she would never forgive herself. Then suddenly the Imperial soldier, the one who had bashed in the young Nord man's face in, was standing before her. His face was smeared with blood and he gave her a glance that said he was willing to do to her what he did to that man if she didn't hand the sword over. A quick side-ways glance at Jonna and she saw the younger girl nod as she handed the first soldier her axe.

"Hmm," said the first Imperial soldier. "There's fresh blood on this axe. Getting into fights, have you, now?"

"Ain't nothin'," Sori replied. "Bandits, only. We was attacked on the road from Riverwood. They drove 'em off, but not without knockin' a few heads, eh?"

"It's not advised," the first soldier returned. "The highway patrols keep the roads safe. If you meet with assaults, it is best to wait for them and describe to them in detail the attackers and which way they went. They will then see to it that justice is met."

"I'll remember that the next time I be robbed and beaten by bandits," Sori stated.

The soldiers glared at them, but gave no answer. Sigrun at last surrendered her sword: the guard took it and, leering at her, walked away with his comrade. From the other side of the cart, Sigrun heard Sori whisper for her and gesture with his head that she should follow Dag and Jonna, who were on their way up the hill to the gates of Whiterun. Sigrun caught up with them and learned that they were on their way to the Bannered Mare: apparently Dag had already been on this particular route with Sori several times and knew the way to the tavern well enough.

* * *

Up from the stables, the path to the gates of Whiterun ran up a wide causeway of stone, upon either side of which were built wooden fortifications and watch-towers. Upon them stood not the hold guards of Whiterun but soldiers of the Imperial Red Legions. Instead of gold and the white horse-head, they wore red and the draconian Red Diamond in black. All of them were armed with spears, bows and arrows, and swords: it was a sign of their prestige that they bore swords instead of axes, the commonly available weapon in Skyrim. The banner of Whiterun, golden with the white horse-head, still hung over the gates of the city, but it seemed as nothing more than a nominal display of tradition.

Inside the gates, the city was preparing for the night. Shops and vendors were packing up their goods from the market square directly ahead of the main road. Imperial soldiers in groups of threes made their patrols along the streets, eying the goings on of the people of Whiterun. The city was built on levels, each higher than the other: the lowest level, in which they walked, was filled with stores and poorer houses, with most of the stores concentrated around the market square at the end of the main street. At the end of the lowest district could be seen a long hall whose roof was built like the inverted hull of a dragon ship.

"That there's Jorrvaskr," Sori proudly stated. "Home o' the Companions. They still operate around Skyrim, both northern an' southern, though they ain't exactly welcome east an' west. Nor here'bouts neither, not after the Emperor brought the Fighters Guild into Skyrim."

"Sig, it's the Companions!" Jonna whispered excitedly. They had both heard many stories of the exploits of the Companions from Eirik, who had, for a time, been their Harbinger. In fact, though Sigrun had ulterior motives, Jonna's desire to make a name for herself would undoubtedly bring her back this way, back to the Hall of the Companions.

Sigrun nodded, but made no audible reply. She hadn't spoken a word since they passed the walls of Whiterun and seen the bodies hanging thereon.

Into the market square the little group arrived, coming to the Bannered Mare tavern. In a city filled with the solemnity of occupation and the grimness of daily executions upon the walls, here alone there seemed to be mirth and happiness. From the walls could be faintly discerned the noise of song and revelry, playing on as if in defiance of the sorry state of Whiterun. The four of them pushed open the door and walked into the common room of the tavern. True to the noise, it was indeed lively inside. Groups of people gathered at the tables, sharing stories, taking breaks from their patrols, brokering deals in hushed tones in the dark corners, soliciting the services of loose women, or arm in arm and slurring through old drinking songs. A warm fire crackled in the hearth in the center, over which hot food was being prepared by several barmaids. At the bar a middle-aged woman with reddish-brown hair was serving drinks to those seated there.

It was to the bar that Sori led the others. There were only three seats at the bar open, but Sori pushed away from one seat an old man lying face-down at the bar. With four seats open, they sat down and made their orders to the woman, whom Sori introduced as Ysolda. Aside from soup, cheese and bread, they began a beer tab for all four of them. Jonna was the first to finish her mug and was already starting on a second round when she noticed that everyone seemed to be absorbed in their own thing. Sori was chatting animatedly with Ysolda about the goings on in Whiterun, Dag was eying the tavern well-endowed tavern maids, and Sigrun was morosely sipping from her cup. On Jonna's left was an older man with short blond hair and a knotted beard, who also looked as melancholic as Sigrun.

"Hey, Sig," Jonna finally said. "Are you alright? You haven't spoken more than a word since we got here."

"I'm sorry," Sigrun sighed. "I don't mean to spoil this. It's just...well..." She sighed. "I can't stop thinking about the people on the wall. If they really were bad enough to warrant such a violent and shameful death."

"We may never know," Jonna replied.

"But why has nobody done anything about it?" Sigrun asked. "Sori said nobody bothers anymore. But why?"

"Because everyone is finally tired of death," the old man groaned. Both Sigrun and Jonna turned to him. "And look what that's done to us! Hell, I used to think people obsessed with honor was the reason there was so much death and hatred here in Skyrim. Now it seems that death comes to us regardless of why we want it. Now..." He grimly chuckled. "...we can only hope that ignoring everything will let death pass us by."

"Ignore all those deaths?" Sigrun asked. "How can you ignore that?"

"Because the alternative," the old man replied. "Is a sorry state. You start to care about family, about peace...about love. Then in one fell swoop, it all gets taken away from you: family, peace, love...heart! And you're left with nothing but emptiness and regret, endlessly wishing that things could be different, wondering if you could have done more to prevent it all from happening. It drives a man mad."

"So what do you do, then?" Jonna asked.

"Ignore the pain," the old man replied, raising his cup as if to show the secret to his method. "Try to forget. Let it go. Get along to get along."

"Do you really believe that?" Jonna asked, feeling depressed at this man's apathy.

"I'm not the only one," the old man groaned. "There are many in Skyrim who have adopted this noble method of getting along."

Jonna, desperately trying to salvage the quickly deteriorating mood of the conversation, turned to her cup to notice that it was empty. Taking the bottle, she filled it up yet again, then offered to top off the old man's cup.

"Yes, now you're talking!" the old man chuckled grimly. "The juice of barley, wheat and hops will cure any ailment! I like you, kinswoman. What is your name?"

"Jonna," she replied.

"Jon," he added. "What clan do you belong to?"

"I don't belong to any clan," Jonna shook her head.

"Indeed?" Jon returned. "I would have pegged you for a clans-woman. You seem somewhat familiar."

"I'm sorry?" Jonna said. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"Ah, it don't matter," Jon dismissed. "You have beer, that's enough for me." Without bothering for a toast, Jon emptied his mug and fell backwards onto the floor. He did not stir from his place.

"Good riddance!" Ysolda exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" Jonna asked.

"You must be new here, kinswoman," Ysolda answered with a laugh. "Jon's the town drunk; well, one of them. We tolerate him in here 'cuz he has the coin for it. Today he's been at the bar, drinking more than usual and talking to anyone that'd listen." She then called to one of the barmaids and had them drag Jon from the bar. A large man with a thick, long beard took his seat and started barking out his order.

"Jons?" Sigrun spoke.

"Hmm?" Jonna said, turning from the large hairy man.

"I want you to kill me if I ever become like that old man," Sigrun said.

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think, Sig?" Jonna returned. "I mean, he's obviously been through shit. You can't be too hard on him."

"I don't ever want to be like that," Sigrun stated. Secretly, she was thinking about the home she had left behind reluctantly. Her father, mother, and brother were still there, waiting for her return once they realized that she was gone. She couldn't imagine ever being so dead inside that she could stop caring about her family.

"Well, then, I'll make you a deal," Jonna said. "I won't kill you, I'll just knock some sense into you before it ever gets to be that bad. Deal?" She held up her mug.

"Deal," Sigrun smiled, clanging her mug against Jonna's. They then both turned their cups to the roof and drank deeply. Sigrun, who had been only sipping, shook her head as the brew started getting to her. Jonna, on the other hand, had finished three whole cups and was still as sober as the moment she entered the bar.

"Ysolda!" Jonna shouted over the tumult of the tavern. "Don't you have anything stronger?"

"If you have the coin for it," the proprietor returned.

Jonna began searching for her money-bag when suddenly a large hand slammed on the table and presented Ysolda with several gold septims. Jonna noticed that the hand belonged to the large hairy man at her left.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Ain't nothin' wrong yet," the man rumbled. "Just buyin' you a drink."

"Why?" Jonna asked.

"Don't you know who I am?" he asked.

"Should I?" Jonna retorted.

The man made a forced grin. "I'm Sjof the Strong, adventurer from Riften. I've traveled seven of the eight provinces, fought man, mer and beast from the Alik'r Desert to the wastelands of Morrowind. There's not a tavern between the two I ain't visited, and in each one I've out-drunk every man, mer and beast that I've encountered. That's why they call me 'the Strong'; there's no man I can't beat, whether by arm or drink."

"Is that so?" Jonna asked, her interest suddenly piqued. "Well, I don't know if I should."

"What's the matter, girl?" he laughed. "Afraid of a little friendly competition?"

"No," Jonna returned. "It's just, well, I've already had three. So it really wouldn't be fair...for you, that is."

"Then by all means, let me catch up!" Sjof replied. He ordered a bottle of the strongest beer and three cups worth to start him off. A large metal pitcher was presented, which he lifted up to his lips and began chugging like a thirsty man finding a spring in the desert.

"You sure you don't wanna back down, Jons?" Sigrun interjected.

"I'm not afraid of him," Jonna returned. "Besides, this beer is like water. I've had three cups and don't feel shit."

"But that's the _strong_ stuff," Sigrun, who was a little woozy, pointed in the general direction of the large bottle.

"That's what _they_ say," Jonna replied.

"But do you _really_ want to marry him?" Sigrun asked.

"Who says I'll lose?" Jonna returned. At her left, Sjof slammed his pitcher onto the table and let out a long, loud belch.

"Right then, girl," he said. "Now that we're all caught up, let's get on with this. What shall the stakes be?"

"Stakes?" Jonna asked. She hadn't necessarily thought about wagering anything. Then again, the boast she had made as a wild, adventurous young woman still rang in her ears, especially after being reminded of it by Sigrun. As she sat there, between Sjof and Sigrun, she realized that she _wanted_ to wager something: she wanted to put something at risk and know that she had won it fair and square.

"Aye, you know," he replied. "Or are you afraid to risk anything against the greatest drinker in all of Tamriel?"

"Just a moment, let me think," she muttered.

"Bah!" sneered Sjof. "Thinking is for milk-drinkers! A real warrior acts first, with no hesitation! Swift, sure and unrepentant, like a sword!"

But Jonna was busy thinking. She didn't want to wager money; she knew enough that she and Sigrun couldn't last long in Skyrim without money. Turning back to Sjof, she saw that his large, flaming blue eyes were looking her over. A new thought came into Jonna's mind.

"A sword!" she exclaimed. "Where's your sword? Such a mighty adventurer of many journeys should have a fine weapon to match, aye?"

"It's at the gates," Sjof replied. "Imperial law and all. It's the same in Cyrodiil, High Rock and the Free States of Hammerfell."

"Is it a fine weapon?" Jonna asked.

"The best in all of Tamriel," Sjof returned.

"Wager your sword," Jonna stated. "If I win, I get your sword as my own."

"Fuck that!" Sjof exclaimed. "A warrior ain't worth nothin' without a weapon!"

"You seem strong enough to crush skulls with your bare hands," Jonna returned. "I don't think you'd find it hard to manage."

"Oh, a cheeky girl, uh?" he replied. "Alright, then, what if _I_ win?"

Jonna bit her lower lip as her eyes met his. "I think we both know what _you_ want. If you beat me fair and square, we could go up to one of the rooms here in the inn and see about letting you have that. What do you think?"

For a moment, Sjof was mesmerized by her tantalizing offer. Then he noticed her eyes and he snorted, shaking his head and wagging his massive beard.

"You really think your cunt's as valuable as my sword?" he asked.

At her right, Jonna heard a fist hit the table. With a quick glance, she saw Sigrun glaring at the bar with a look that could have boiled Lake Ilinalta. Though they were both unfamiliar with traveling in the wilds of Skyrim, they had heard more than their fair share of choice words. The trading posts at Oakwood and Riverwood had more than a few travelers and customers with loud, abrasive tongues. This word in particular, however, was particularly rough for Sigrun: the place she had first heard it was much closer than the Riverwood Trader.

"I'd say it's as valuable to me as your sword is to you," Jonna quickly retorted. "Besides..." She leaned in and whispered into Sjof's ear. A new desire rose up in Jonna's being: she wanted to beat him for Sigrun.

Her secret words must have changed Sjof's mind, for he now nodded.

"You're on!" he exclaimed. Jonna seized the bottle of the 'strong' stuff and began to pour for herself and Sjof.

"What shall we drink to?" she asked.

"Let's drink to the Emperor!" he exclaimed.

At the mention of the Emperor, more than a few heads around the bar were turned towards them. Some glared with restrained resentment in their eyes, others shook their heads and returned to their beers, many simply lowered their heads or muttered prayers under their breaths, but not a word was spoken.

Jonna was not oblivious to what had just happened, but neither did she want to make a scene about it. She too had seen the bodies hanging from the walls of Whiterun.

"I'll drink to that," she replied, trying to save face. "If you'll drink to the Dragonborn."

"Fuck that!" Sjof snorted. "I'm not drinking to that cunt. Now, girl, let's empty our cups in the name of His Imperial Majesty Ser..."

"Excuse me?"

Jonna turned about to face the interrupter: it was Sigrun. Her eyes were reddish and one hand still held her cup, but there was a queer look in those eyes that made Jonna worried. Though they had grown up together and, to the eye of an outsider, were as close as sisters, Jonna had never really seen Sigrun angry before this. She had seen her frustrated, cranky, and of course heated with the fury of combat during their sparring sessions: but she had never seen her truly angry.

"You heard me, b*tch," Sjof stated. "I ain't drinkin' to no war-mongerin', milk-drinkin' piece o' shit like the Dragonborn."

"I'll have you know," Sigrun interjected. "That 'piece o' shit' happens to be my father."

"I don't care if he's fucking Talos hisself!" Sjof bit back. "Your da's a cunt and that's that!"

Sigrun did not reply, but a fire was kindled in her eyes much hotter than the blood-shots of a little too much mead. Her right hand slowly began to move down to the bar, placing the cup down first.

"Sig," muttered Jonna under her breath. "Don't drag me into this."

"What you gonna do about it, b*tch?" Sjof returned. "Cry to your ma's t..."

But he hadn't time to finish. In one swift stroke, Sigrun had clenched her hand into a fist and struck Sjof a blow on the jaw so hard he almost fell backwards out of his chair. As it was, he stumbled back to keep himself from falling, his hand reaching up to where the fist had struck.

"Khrag!" shouted Sjof.

From out of the crowd in the common room a tall, brutish figure appeared. A mountain of muscle it appeared, clad in animal furs and heavy boots that made heavy thuds with each step it made towards the bar. Its shoulders were broad and its arms wide, but the impressive features ceased above the thick neck. The thing was bald, with skin the pale-green color of vomit, and the face was such that even its mother could not have loved it: two large, round eyes sat at the bottom of a low, sloping forehead, beneath which was a wide flat nose at the top of a misshapen mouth with a protruding lower jaw.

All those in its way moved or were pushed aside as the one whom Sjof called Khrag crossed the common room with long strides. In a swift motion it seized Sigrun's head from behind and slammed her face first into the bar. A second swift blow sent Sigrun's face back into the bar, quickly followed by a third such blow. A fourth never came. As soon as Jonna realized what was going on, she put her cup down and leaped onto the brute's back, wrapping her arms around its neck in a choke-hold. As strong as the beast was, in its mind it was little more than a child; instinct took over when it suddenly couldn't breathe and it released its hold on Sigrun's head, its massive hands swatting about to reach the pest upon its back.

One hand struck a patron who had been walking to the bar for more beer, sending him sprawling into a table, knocking it over, and spilling all of its contents into the laps of it's unfortunate and now unhappy occupants. Most of them shouted in retort or threw insults at the patron, but one of the bolder ones got up and struck back. From that point on, it was mayhem. The two patrons who were unfortunate collateral were now exchanging drunken blows, while the others, bored with the lull in commotion or frustrated at their lives and eager for a chaotic release, jeered them on or joined in the brawl.

In the center of it, there were Jonna and Sigrun, fighting off against Sjof and Khrag. By now Sjof was swinging away with his fists at Sigrun, eager to make her pay for cutting open his lip with her fist. Though her left eye was swollen shut from where it met the bar, and her limbs were loose from the drink she had imbibed, Sigrun's blood was hot and she wasn't going to be taken off-guard again. Jonna and Khrag, meanwhile, were engaged in some kind of violent dance. The large beast flailed about its arms ungainly, swinging and hitting at everything but the pest; each blow knocked over tables, broke chairs, sent beer flying, struck customers and fueled the fight. Little Jonna clung to its neck for dear life, keeping her head down to avoid being struck.

Somewhere in her dazed state, Sigrun was trying to remember what she had learned from her mother about fighting. Sjof wasn't very tall, but he was almost double her size: she couldn't go toe-to-toe with him, slugging out skull-cracking blows like her father could, at least not for very long. Her first instinct was a swift kick to the groin, but she slipped on the floor, wet with beer, and fell on her back. Sjof's foot came down, but she managed to roll aside just in time before it connected with her stomach. She staggered to her feet, but a kick to her stomach sent her sprawling away and against a fallen table. Her head hit something hard and she was seeing stars for a moment; her right hand went up and found the source, a metal tankard. Just in time, for Sjof was charging at her, roaring with fury. Sigrun threw the cup, hitting the charging man on the side of his head: it bought her enough time to scramble back to her feet before, angrier than before, Sjof charged again.

This time she was ready for him. She ducked under as a huge fist came swinging towards her, then struck with all of her might at Sjof's unprotected sides. They were now in each other's arms, Sjof pushing Sigrun towards the wall as she sent blow after blow into his side. There was a dull crack and Sjof stumbled, tripped over the legs of a broken stool, and they both fell to the floor. Sigrun was bruised, in pain from her throbbing head, swollen eye and her stomach. Sjof's mouth was full of more blood than could be warranted for a broken lip, and there was a red spot where the metal cup had made contact with his forehead.

Sjof groaned loudly from the pain, then made a swing at Sigrun. She rolled out of reach of the blow, then scrambled back onto her feet and stood her ground. Suddenly she fell forward, tackled to the ground. Even as she was rising, several things were happening at once behind her. Another patron, unaware of who was belligerent in the bar fight but eager nonetheless to vent his frustration, was picking fights with anyone he came in contact with: at this moment, that meant Sigrun. As her focus was on Sjof, she made an easy target. But the patron's actions had not gone unnoticed. Khrag had finally succumbed to Jonna's choke-hold and had fallen to its knees on the floor. A bottle flew over Jonna's head as she climbed off the body, and as she turned her head to avoid it, she saw the patron sneaking up on Sigrun. She leaped off Khrag's shoulders and came down upon the patron from behind, sending both him and Sigrun onto the floor.

Suddenly the door was thrown open. There were loud shouts and strong hands began tearing brawling patrons apart. In the light of the fire from the Bannered Mare the crimson of Imperial guards could be seen. Within moments Sigrun, Jonna and Skjof were dragged to their feet and kept apart as order was restored. The captain of the guards strode into the midst of the separated combatants.

"How typical," he sneered. "Is that all you Nords know how to do: fight and drink? Alright, which one of you barbarians started this?"

"It was them b*tches!" Skjof said, pointing an accusatory finger towards Sigrun and Jonna. "We was just havin' some drinks, then the tall one got all uppity and started throwin' punches. I never wanted to start nothin'."

"He insulted my family!" Sigrun replied.

"Pity you let yourself be offended by his words!" scoffed the captain. "Looks like it's a night in Dragonsreach dungeon for you, and thirty lashes to teach you to mind your temper."

"That son of a b*tch called his...beast on my friend!" Jonna interjected. " _He_ attacked first! Just look at her eye!"

The captain walked over to Sigrun and looked long and hard at her face. "I don't see anything."

"You mother..." Jonna began.

"Assaulting an Imperial captain?" one of the other guards spoke, stepping between Jonna and the captain. "That's a hanging offense, little lady."

"Stand down, Arius," the captain said. "The little b*tch didn't lay a hand on me." He then turned to Jonna, a devious smile on his face. "Aha. You're fond of this one, aren't you?" He gestured to Sigrun. "There's no use denying it. I saw it in the way you jumped to her defense. Very well, you're going into Dragonsreach as well."

"Why not kill me like he said?" Jonna retorted. Not the wisest answer to make to one in whose hands one's life rested, but Jonna was still hot from the brawl.

"You were involved in the brawl, yes?" he asked. "That's reason enough to throw you in Dragonsreach. As for your disrespectful attitude, we have ways to soften a stiff-neck before it needs breaking. Seventy lashes for you."

"What about him?" Jonna protested, turning to Sjof. "He was part of the fight also!"

"Oh, we know him," the captain returned. "He's a member of the Fighters Guild, and the Guild Master will deal with him as he sees fit."

"But what about his beast friend?" Jonna continued. "He almost crushed her face in!"

"Jons, please..." sighed Sigrun.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" the captain retorted. "You filthy Nords love mistreating those different than you, don't you? Just because he's a half-orc, does that make him violent? Brutish? Lawless? Ninety lashes, and I'd hold my tongue, if I were you, unless you'd like to lose all future prospects by earning for yourself a back full of stripes. Now move it!"

Two guards took Sigrun and placed her in irons, while the captain had three guards secure Jonna. While they were thus being detained, Sjof walked over to Sigrun, put himself within an inch from her nose, and sneered.

"You ain't nothin' but a b*tch, just like your da."

In a moment, several things happened. Sigrun lurched forward, and Sjof came leering back, crying loudly. A large rivulet of blood was pouring from out of his mouth, which was redder and more crooked than before. Suddenly a fist struck Sigrun on the face and she knew no more.

* * *

 **(AN: I know that _Skyrim_ is everyone's least favorite _Elder Scrolls_ game [because _Lord of the Rings_ -knock off _Oblivion_ and weird for the sake of weird _Morrowind_ are SO much "better"], but i actually liked it. If only because it was the only video game somewhat based on Norse mythology/culture that didn't suck completely. Seriously, there aren't any good games about Norse lore, and i doubt that _God of War 4_ is going to change that, since it will, invariably, be Kratos shitting on the Aesir just as he shat on the Olympians.)**

 **(That being said, my brother - an _Oblivion_ fanboy - started watching this YouTube video series entitled "what if Skyrim were good", which was pretty much just a subjective wish-fulfillment fan-game where this one _Oblivion_ fanboy made his version of "good" _Skyrim_ which pretty much just took everything from _Oblivion_ and threw it into _Skyrim_ : even down to having Ulfric be a long-lost Septim! Yes, that's what i ended up doing with Crixus, but, as much as i support the Stormcloaks, i don't think Ulfric should be a Septim. The time of the Empire is over, just as the time of the Dunmer ended when Baar-Dau crushed Vvardenfell [which, by the way, had NOTHING to do with lack of worship of Vivec! if it did, there could not have been time to build an "ingenium" to keep it afloat]. Also, probably the stupidest thing, in my opinion, from the video is where the Blades, quite out of character, kill off both Ulfric and Tullius and make you the "King of Skyrim." It sounds like another YouTube video i saw where someone mistranslated the Draconic line "naal ok zin los vahriin" as the English "you're the King of Skyrim".)**


	5. Mists and Shadows

**(AN: A new chapter and more information will be added shortly. I just hope i can get all of my ideas cohesively into this story. If you were attentive, more than a few hints were dropped in the last chapter about things that will happen or be mentioned. Plenty of seeds planted, let's just hope they sprout.)**

 **(For those who were wondering what i have against _Oblivion_. Well, at a very superficial level, i just didn't enjoy the game. Aside from having to look at potato faces with their robotic eye and head movements, after i got out of the Imperial prison, i got lost, ran out of gold and was killed by the town guard ["Stop right there, criminal scum! Nobody breaks the law on MY watch!"] for having no money to pay whatever fine i incurred. At a deeper level, the user-unfriendly mechanics of the game reminded me of why i haven't delved deeper into role-playing games: the spirit of elitism. Every time i was interested, all the RPGers, like the metal-head community, acted like a high school clique. "Oh, you're not 'one of us', so you can't know what we know!", that kind of shit. I think it's also interesting that the elitist RPG power fantasy [in regular RPGs, it's "you're the savior of the world and get the girl", whereas in michael kirkbride's "vision" of the _Elder Scrolls_ , it's "you are god", but essentially the same thing] is undermined in games like _Oblivion_ and _Fallout 3_ , where you're not the main focus of the story, and yet those games are beloved.)**

 **(Which is why i pray once again...for reviews. My goal in the beginning was to make this story, and the lore thereof, somewhat accessible for everyone. I don't know if that's the case if i'm not getting reviews. Hell, even the negative ones will make me look back critically at what i've written to see if i can make it better!)**

* * *

 **Mists and Shadows**

It was some time around midnight when Sigrun finally awoke. The first things she felt were the intense throbbing in her head and the dryness of her mouth. Then came the stinging in her left eye, which was still swollen shut. Her right eye could see very little, only the flicker of a torch coming from the other side of the bars down the hall. As she tried to move, she found that her body was sore. Then it began to dawn upon her, bit by bit, everything that had transpired in the bar. The words Sjof had callously thrown about, talking about him like that: her father, the Dragonborn, First of the Sons of Skyrim. His words still stung her, even after the fight was over and done with. Not that she believed them, or even entertained the idea of wanting to believe them. Such a thing could not be farther from her mind.

And yet the words remained, like an evil worm gnawing at the insides of her mind. Making its way, piece by piece, to an old memory. A very painful memory.

Turning her head around, so that her good eye could see in the cell into which she had been placed, Sigrun saw Jonna nodding away at her left. An involuntary shudder in her leg sent a shiver through Jonna's body, and she swatted at the pile of hay upon which they were both sitting. The shorter girl wearily leaned back into her former position, her eyelids creaking open from the sudden jolt. It was then that she noticed her cell-mate was awake.

"Sig?" she muttered. "You're awake?"

"Hey," Sigrun whispered. "Are you alright?"

"Who, me?" Jonna asked. A wide yawn escaped her lips, but her hands were too weary to rise up and cover her mouth. "Oh, I should be asking _you_ that question. That thing, that half-orc or whatever it was, slammed your face so hard into the bar, I thought it had broken something. Your eye is a mess."

"I'm alright," sighed Sigrun. "At least, I think so. I'm still sore from the fight, and I can't open my left eye."

"We'll get it looked at, once we're out of here, that is," Jonna stated.

"Where is here?" Sigrun asked.

"Dragonsreach dungeon," Jonna returned.

"We're in jail?" Sigrun queried, a hint of alarm in her voice.

"That's why I told you," Jonna stated. "Not to drag me into your little brawl."

"I thought you were never afraid of fighting," Sigrun retorted.

"And I'm not," Jonna shook her head. "And I'll be damned before I let you get into a fight without me having your back."

Sigrun hung her head, though at the moment she couldn't quite articulate why she felt ashamed. "I didn't ask you to have my back."

"And you'll never have to, sis," Jonna replied.

There was silence for a moment in the little cell. As Sigrun tried to fight off how badly Sjof's words made her feel, what Jonna had just admitted made her feel just as bad, if not worse. Nobody knew Jonna Jordisdottir better than she did, and at last she began to articulate in her mind what her heart already felt. They had left home together, with the unspoken promise to protect each other wherever they went. That she had doubted this at the beginning and had thought of turning back made Sigrun feel ashamed. She had thought she was better than this. Now, however, having been bloodied and beaten in her first encounter, and with negative emotions abounding in this dark, dank, depressive cell, Sigrun began entertaining the idea of going back home once again.

Another loud yawn escaped Jonna's lips nearby, breaking Sigrun's line of thought.

"Are you alright?" she asked again. "You never answered me the first time."

"I'm just tired," sighed Jonna. "I didn't sleep at all while we were here."

"Why not?" asked Sigrun.

"Those damn guards," Jonna began. "They threw us into the same cell and started making jests and taunting us. I think they thought we were lovers or something and wanted to see if we'd start fucking."

"Language!" Sigrun instinctively parroted her mother's words.

"They're not around anymore," Jonna retorted. "Anyway, seeing that we weren't getting busy, some of them thought we needed a little...persuasion. Don't worry, though: they got nothing out of us but a few swift kicks to the knees. That pissed them off, but thankfully their captain found the noise they were making too loud and came down to investigate. He sent them away for insubordination and placed new guards for us."

"You should have woken me up," Sigrun added. "I could have helped you."

"I tried waking you up," Jonna returned. "But that guard must have really put you under good. Then again, there wasn't much left to put under: you'd already started getting silly and after being smashed into the bar, it's a miracle you got out with only a black eye."

"Yeah, really miraculous," Sigrun sighed. She groaned from the aches in her stomach, then shifted to get a more comfortable position. "Jons, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Last night is still...pretty fuzzy," Sigrun groaned. "Do you perchance know what's going to happen to us now?"

"Well, we're in jail, obviously," Jonna replied. "I remember that asshole captain talking about lashes. I guess we'll be whipped for starting the fight."

"You didn't start anything," Sigrun mumbled. "It was me who threw the first punch."

"And I stood up for you," Jonna added. "And that asshole ordered lashes for me too." Jonna sighed. "A fine time for our first day in Whiterun, don't you think?"

"I had hoped to join the Companions," Sigrun said. "Or at least talk to the Harbinger. Papa always spoke highly of her."

The dungeon was dark, and though her bruises ached, sleep was overcoming Sigrun. The last thing she clearly heard was Jonna wondering aloud where old Sori had disappeared to. He hadn't tried to stop the brawl from beginning and hadn't intervened throughout it. Indeed, he had strangely disappeared at some point between Jonna's talk with the town drunk and the onset of the brawl. Sigrun racked her brains, trying to see if she could place him, but her head throbbed like a beating war-drum. Under its agonizing rhythm, she surrendered to sleep.

* * *

In the twilight hours, the soft gasp of wind is often mistaken for the howling of a wolf or the whisper of some evil specter. In such times, those unfortunate enough to be enthralled by the doleful voices of the night find themselves robbed of sleep as alertness keeps them wary of dangers lurking for them in the shadows. In contrast, the Dragonsreach dungeon was rather quiet. The night-guards had fallen asleep, and the torches were burning low, uttering only a murmurous crackle and casting light only on their immediate surroundings. Ever and anon a mouse or rat would squeak somewhere from the darkness. The two women were fast asleep and did not stir at these clandestine noises.

So it was that the sound of footsteps on the dry stones of the dungeon floor was enough to stir one of them from sleep. At first Sigrun thought it was either the guards or Jonna, pacing about the cell. As far as she could recall, Jonna was still awake when she herself had fallen asleep and, for all she knew, might still be awake now. The warmth radiating to her left proved that she was mistaken: Jonna had also fallen into slumber. Sigrun was ready to resign herself to the fact that it was merely the guards and go back to sleep: then came into mind what Jonna had said about the guards earlier. The sound of booted footsteps was getting closer.

Her eyes darted towards the bars. The hall outside the dungeon was dimly lit, for the torches burned low, casting little light, and she could not see far. A dark shadow passed over the light, distorted beyond recognition. It was tall and long, but there was something wholly unnatural about that shadow: it seemed, to Sigrun's eyes, laden with sleep and alert from the sounds of the twilight, that the shadow danced and moved. Not as though the flame itself were moving to cause the shadow to dance, but as if the shadow itself was moving outside of that which cast it. Before she could get a second glance at the moving shadow, it had melded into the darkness outside of the flickering torch-light and was gone.

One of the torches suddenly was lifted out of its scone on the wall and began to move towards her. A figure there appeared, holding the light ahead, but it was too faint to discern who the figure was. Slowly it approached, its boots making the same soft, dull thudding steps Sigrun had heard before. Now the figure was at the bars of the cell: the clanking of a key-chain was heard. Sigrun pushed herself up against the wall of the cell as best she could, fearing what this newcomer might do to them. The rippling shadow had put her on-guard, and even the opening of her cell-door was not enough to assuage her fears. The key clicked in the lock and, with a loud, noisy groan of protest, the iron hinges let the door be pushed open.

The figure was now standing in the cell with them, holding the torch forward to cast light on the sleeping women. In its light, Sigrun could make out a face. The newcomer was a man, of adult years but still young: he had short, dark, wavy hair and no beard. The clothes he wore were not the garb of the Imperial guards, but their color was lost in the darkness that illuminated no farther down than the man's shoulders. The eyes stood out the most to Sigrun: bold and blue, they seemed to lurch out hungrily at her from within the man's face. They did not seem to be human eyes, but rather like the eyes of some wild animal. Years ago, Sigrun had seen a wolf lurking in the shadows of the forest one evening: it disturbed her how much this man's eyes resembled those of that wolf.

"There's a trap door under the hay you're laying on, Sigrun," the man spoke. He spoke cultured, as though he had been educated, but his voice had a slight drawl that suggested the patience of a hunter. "It leads to a tunnel that will take you all the way out to the Plains District."

This had been the absolute last thing Sigrun had expected. Not only from her guest, but to happen at all. She knew no one outside of her family and the few friends of her father and mother who had stopped at Lakeview Manor from time to time. Who was this strange man standing before her and why was he helping her? And how did he know her?

"I know, Sigrun, I know," the man said again. "Why is this strange man with wolf's eyes standing in your cell, offering to let you escape from jail?" He chuckled softly, but it was a haughty chuckle: he knew much more than he was letting on, and it pleased him to withhold that knowledge.

But his words made Sigrun's skin crawl. She hadn't spoken a word, and yet the man seemed to know what she had thought of him. Even more than that, the detail was beyond uncanny. Why had he used those precise words in describing himself to her? Words that he could not possibly have known. Yet for some reason he knew those words, even as he knew her name though they had never met.

The man tutted. "Poor, poor Lucia. You want to know where she is, don't you? Where your beloved sister ran off to, right? Well, here's your chance."

Sigrun froze where she lay. This man knew too much. She hadn't told anyone else about her desire to find Lucia, not even Jonna. Though they had grown close together throughout the years, Sigrun and Jonna, she always missed her older sister. There were memories, fond ones, that existed solely between Sigrun and Lucia. Good memories, ones so powerful in Sigrun's mind that they dispelled the painful ones. In her heart, she had hoped she might learn of Lucia's whereabouts on her journey with Jonna through Skyrim; yet she had spoken nothing of it to her, not yet.

But this man knew! How could he know? How in all of Tamriel, could this one fellow know things which Sigrun had not spoken to anyone in her family? The two eyes now seemed to be hiding some dark, portentous knowledge. Was this man even flesh and blood? There had been stories that the spirits of the dead, shut out from Sovngarde, wandered the earth in aimless, restless abandon, uncovering secrets no mortal could know. Even still there were other stories of beings of terrible power, beings that existed outside the world of the living but were not counted among the dead. Her father had rarely spoken of the daedra, the lords of Oblivion; but every time he spoke of them, his words were cautionary.

 _Meddle not with the daedra, my daughter,_ he had said. _For they exact high tolls for their favor. Though they do not ask for payment immediately, they will collect their due in time. The cost, however, is greater than any can possibly afford._

Sigrun had never pressed her father as to how he knew such things. It was assumed that he learned of this during his many adventures. But the words gave her a great sense of foreboding every time the daedra were mentioned: which, thankfully, was not often. Now, however, her mind, stirred by the mysterious man in the shadows with the wolfish eyes, dared to wonder if this man was a daedra in disguise. How else could he know things the secret things of her heart, things which she had told neither man nor woman, mer nor beast, living or dead.

* * *

"Oi! Wake up, you!"

The voice that spoke was loud, so loud that it hurt Sigrun's ears to hear it after the silence of the darkness and the patient drawl of her guest. Suddenly she was soaked from head to toe in ice cold water. If the voice hadn't roused her from sleep, the water certainly had. Gasping and sputtering, she found herself lying on now damp straw in the cell with Jonna coughing and cursing next to her. As she looked around, Sigrun saw an Imperial guard with a bucket in his hands standing on the other side of the bars.

"You're free to go," the guard said bluntly. There was no anger or disappointment in his voice: only a cold statement of fact.

"Free?" Jonna asked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," the guard replied. "Your bail's been paid."

The guard unlocked the door of the cell as Sigrun and Jonna slowly rose to their feet. The door was pushed open, and Sigrun heard the tell-tale whine of the iron hinges; the same noise that had sounded when the mysterious stranger appeared in her cell. But while she was still wrapped up in thoughts about her visitor, Jonna was surprised that they had been so suddenly released.

"What about the stripes?" she asked without thinking. "Didn't your captain say something about beating us for the bar fight?"

"Heh!" the guard scoffed. "Asking why you escaped punishment: not something a prisoner would often say. Just be grateful your worthless Nord hide got off so easily, if your kind are even capable of gratitude. Now get your arse up the stairs and out of the dungeon, before the captain changes his mind."

The two women made their way out of the cell. Sigrun spared a quick glance at the guard: his face was broader than that of her visitor, and his voice had no drawl. Though in the darkness of night she had decided that her visitor had not been of mortal-kind, the sudden and unexpected release in the light of day caused her to look about in curiosity. Had it been a dream, or had her visitor been real?

Jonna's concerns, meanwhile, were on the things of the moment. She didn't trust the guards as far as she could kick them, and she noticed that more than a few of them were glaring at the two women as they made their way out of the dungeon. Jonna kept her hands clenched, but made no move against any of them. Even so, it stung to endure their howls, whistles, drawling mockeries and taunts when she knew she could shut at least a few of them up before they got to her.

Out from the dungeon they went up a flight of stairs into an open-air courtyard ringed with a wall of wood and stone: they were inside the Cloud District. There they saw the captain of the Imperial guard standing beside the door. Next to him were Sori and Dag: the older man had a look of quiet distress on his face when they first saw him, while the young man seemed rather bored with himself. The old man's face changed when he saw the two women, lighting up with relief that they were here without complications. Then his eyes fell upon Sigrun's face and his countenance fell yet again.

"There y'are!" he exclaimed. "Gods be prai...oh, no! Sigrun, what happened to ye?"

"They started a bar-fight in the Bannered Mare," the captain stated.

"Thank ye, cap'n," Sori said in an aside, his eyes fixed on the two women. "If it's all th' same to ye, I'd like to hear it from them."

"Why? My word ain't good enough?" the captain asked. "I'm an Imperial officer, mind you. A soldier of the Red Legion: a man of honor. Is my word held in less regard than the word of two Nord b*tches?"

"I know exactly what y'are, cap'n," Sori muttered through clenched teeth.

The captain scoffed. "Watch yourself, old man. If word ever gets out that you've been dealing with Nords, as I suspect, I'll personally string you up from the walls of the city."

"Good day, cap'n," Sori nodded.

Once they met, the old man led them away from the doors of the dungeon and toward a flight of stone steps that led down from the Cloud District.

"So, what happened?" Sori asked, once he guessed they were out of earshot of the captain.

"A bar-fight," Jonna replied. "Some big, ugly beast bashed Sigrun's face into the bar." With that, the women went into a quick recount of the fight, with details about their two belligerents.

"Ah," Sori murmured in a disapproving tone, once they had concluded.

"We didn't start the fight," Sigrun clarified. "This hairy bastard was insulting my father."

"Him and half o' Skyrim, no doubt," Sori replied. "Do ye plan on fightin' half o' Skyrim over account of a few hurtful words?"

"He's _my_ father!" Sigrun retorted, raising her voice. "Doesn't honor mean anything anymore?"

"Not what it used to," Sori sighed. "Nevertheless, the two o' ye are still in _my_ employ. If ye keep startin' fights in every tavern we visit, I'll have to reduce yer pay. I've already put meself out by puttin' forward yer bail money."

"For which we're extremely grateful," Jonna added.

"And so ye should be!" Sori retorted. "Punishment fer pickin' fights with half-Orcs is high, very high."

"Why is that?" Jonna asked.

"Because they 'protected' by Imperial law," Sori stated. "Worst part is most o' 'em don't look no different out-wise than Nords. Maybe a few Orcish features: slopin' brow, big lower jaw, tusks, that sort o' thing. But it's rare to meet one that looked like y'all said."

"Why are they protected?" Sigrun asked.

Just as Sori was about to answer, he suddenly went quiet, looking ahead at the path before them. The main drag that led through the Wind District and back down the hill towards the lower Plains District was filled with people. Two groups seemed to be meeting in the middle of the street, blocking traffic for everyone else. The two groups were so on edge that it seemed there was going to be a confrontation between the two of them. On their right were men and women of various races, led by a tall, golden-skinned mer dressed in black: both him and those behind him all wore badges of a black and white kite shield backed by two crossed swords. On the left was a group of similar diversity, though there were more Nords in this group than the other: they wore no badges or any indicators of rank. At their head was a middle-aged Nord woman with flaming red hair and green war-paint upon her face.

"What are you doing here, Ardorin?" the woman asked.

"Trust me, woman," the elf called Ardorin replied. "There are an infinite number of things I'd prefer doing this early in the morning than coming within wind of your filthy mead hall. As it so happens, I have business with you."

"Is that so?" the red-haired woman returned. "Well, I have business with you."

"My business is more important than yours, Eela," Ardorin stated authoritatively. "Or is it Ayalla?"

"It's Aela, you preening fuck!" the red-haired woman stated. "My business is blood: _our_ blood. Two Companions were killed on assignment near the border of Haafingar."

"Bah!" Ardorin dismissed. "Two fewer Nords in Skyrim? That's a blessing, really! You should be paying _me_ for the service we've done for Tamriel: in fact, you should just pay me anyways. After all, your little band of thugs raided a cart of supplies meant for the Fighters Guild Hall."

"Raiding your pathetic caravans?" Aela retorted. "We don't need to raid your supplies. We have plenty of our own."

"Lies fall from your lips so easily, Huntress," Ardorin retorted. "Perhaps I should take it up with the earl, or whatever you savages call your local leaders."

"Watch your tongue, you Thalmor dog..."

"Or what?" Ardorin laughed. "You'll cut it out? You know the law."

"Aye, I know the law," Aela retorted. "And you've broken it!"

Ardorin threw back his head and laughed a loud, mocking laugh. "In what way have we broken the law?"

"Killing members of the Companions," Aela stated. Those behind her gave cries of agreement.

"The Fighters Guild keeps this land free of beasts," Ardorin replied, taking a menacing step towards the Nord woman. Though they were both tall, the elf was taller and glared down his thin, pointed nose at the Nord woman, whose eyes looked as though they would have burned holes into the elf's skull.

"One day," he said. "Your secret will be known to all and your little gang of thugs won't have anywhere left to hide in all of Tamriel."

"Is that a threat?" Aela replied.

"Oh, I don't threaten anyone," Ardorin replied with a condescending chuckle. "I merely inform the ignorant rabble of the truth." He took a step back, a smug smile on his face. "They told me fierce tales of you Companions when we first set up here in this wretched country: likely cautionary stories to send us packing. A pity the tales were all lies." The red-haired woman spat at the elf's feet, then the two groups slowly dispersed. Once the road was clear, the little group of four made their way down the road.

"Was that the Companions?" Jonna asked Sori.

"Aye, what's left o' 'em," Sori replied.

"What do you mean?" asked Jonna.

"Ever since th' Emperor brought th' Fighters Guild to Skyrim," Sori began. "There's been nothin' but trouble. First it was little things: quarrels over contracts, over who could pick up jobs in which place, little stuff. Then the killin's started happenin'. A Companion got into a quarrel in broad daylight in the streets of Skyrim, and was cut down. In front o' everyone!"

"Wait, how is that possible?" Sigrun asked. "We had our weapons taken from us the moment we tried to enter Whiterun."

"So we did," Sori replied. "And th' Companions also were forced to submit to this law as well. The Fighters Guild weren't. They said that because they have 'professional training rings' in their hall, they need an exception to the weapons ban."

"So the Fighters Guild can carry weapons wherever they go?" asked Jonna.

"Aye," nodded Sori. "And they killed a Companion because o' it. Naturally, the Companions wanted blood, but they weren't allowed to kill the offender. As for the Guild, they got off with a nominal fine fer the incident. Bah!"

"Isn't anyone else upset by this?" Sigrun asked.

"To be sure, some are," Sori replied. "Takin' away o' folks traditions ain't never gone down well in the history o' Tamriel. But what can they do? The poor folk can't fight without weapons, and there ain't many o' th' clans left who ain't in th' Empire's pocket. Clan Battle-Born, for instance. They was one o' th' most renown families in all o' Whiterun. Then the Great War came and they accepted th' Empire's money to support th' White-Gold Concordant, or whatever the fuck it's called. They got richer 'cuz o' it, but they throw out th' old traditions whenever 'convenient.'"

"Surely there must be someone willing to help," Sigrun added hopefully. "Someone with the means to turn things around and the desire to do it."

Sori scoffed. "Those with th' means ain't lookin' out for nobody but theyselves. And those with th' desire end up dead ere long. Now hurry along, we've gotta long day ahead o' us."

They made their way down from the Wind District in sullen silence. Sigrun was especially struck by what Sori had said. The stories her father told her about the Sons of Skyrim made her believe that there were some dedicated to protecting Skyrim and her people: many of whom were still alive, since 'business with the Sons of Skyrim' often took Eirik away from home. Yet the bleak picture painted by Sori and supported by what she saw in the city of Whiterun - even as they were leaving the Wind District, she could hear another prisoner behind them pleading for his life as he was taken away to be executed - seemed to shatter all hope of what she had been told.

But the dark, hopeless cloud did not linger long in the heart of Sigrun Eiriksdottir. Nor did she, as Sori, merely curse the darkness and turn away with head bowed in defeat. Within her mind a candle was lit: only the smallest tongue of flame, so fragile that even the gentlest winds of the mountains threatened to extinguish it. More than seeking adventure, even more than finding Lucia, Sigrun wanted to find someone, anyone, who would no longer tolerate the injustices of the Empire and her Legions. Perhaps it was the optimistic naivete of youth, inexperience with matters of political reformation, or faith in the Nine Divines that made her believe that, if people could be found who were willing, the means would come in time.

* * *

They arrived at the stables outside of Whiterun, where a rather flustered-looking Breton gave them their weapons. Sori asked him what had happened to Lloryth, but the short, middle-aged man ignored his questions. Instead, he rambled on about how the guards were going to have his hide if they discovered the stables were unmanned and then went about his business, making sure that the horse for Sori's wagon was groomed and well-fed. Then he returned the weapons to Sigrun and Jonna. Once they were thus ready, Sori opened a barrel of salted venison, brushed off as much salt as he could from a small cut, and offered it to Sigrun.

"Place this here on yer eye," he told her. "Should 'elp with th' swellin'."

They then climbed aboard the wagon and, after Sori urged the horse with a click of the reins, they were on their way down the hill. For the first few minutes they rode in silence, not daring to look leftward, towards the walls of Whiterun. After a while, they reached a fork in the road and turned the cart left. This path, Sori told them, would take them northward, towards their final destination in the Pale. A journey of two or three days was ahead of them, most of which would be through bitter cold; the Pale was clad in snow all year around.

As they passed along the eastern wall of Whiterun, Sigrun, seated in the back of the cart with Jonna, who was going over their gear, was musing on their sudden departure. She knew that they hadn't killed the dark elf at the stables, so why was he missing? It then dawned upon Sigrun that she hadn't ever killed someone before in her life. She had killed more than a few animals: that slaughter-fish, a rabid wolf that had attacked the animal pen at Lakeview Manor, whatever had been caught during hunting trips (she was never very good at hunting; archery was not her strong suit and as soon as she missed a deer or rabbit, they would often get away before she could fit an arrow to the string for a second shot), and a few rats that made the basement their home. All of those, however, were necessary: the fish bit her, the wolf was rabid and would have harmed both their domestic animals and anyone it might have bitten, the rats were pests, and those who didn't live in the affluent counties of Cyrodiil relied on gathering and hunting their own food.

But never before had she killed a person, whether man, mer or beast-folk. Fighting with Jonna had been almost a game, something they did for enjoyment.

"Jons?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever think we'll run into any trouble along our way?" she asked.

Jonna scoffed. "Of course we will. It's Skyrim, after all. Half the stories we've heard about it being dangerous can't all be untrue, despite what your mother says."

"Then," Sigrun continued. "Do you think we'll be forced to kill someone? I mean, not just wild animals, but someone...you know, a person?"

Jonna nodded. "Yeah. What do you think your sword's for? Not everyone we meet will be as easy to chase off as those 'Sisters of Strife'. What's the matter, having second thoughts about coming along?"

"No, not that," Sigrun dismissed. Going back had been put out of her mind a while ago, and their stay in the Dragonsreach dungeon had only solidified that reality. "It's just, well, I never really thought we'd be killing someone. After seeing those people up on the walls...I don't know if I could do it."

"That's why my master said don't look," Dag interjected.

"Keep your nose to yourself or have it broken!" Jonna retorted, then turned back to Sigrun. "Look, my mother told me a thing or two about fighting. Probably the same shit you heard from your mother and father. But I think it will do you good to hear this."

"Why?" Sigrun asked.

"Because my ma didn't have the same lifestyle as your ma and da," Jonna began. "Both of your parents were on their own at young ages. My ma grew up in the court of Solitude. Granted, our home isn't exactly Solitude, but she didn't see battle until she was in her twenties. A lot like you, really."

"Alright," Sigrun returned. "So what did your mother say?"

"Pretty much the same thing you're saying, too," Jonna replied. "Living in the comfort of the Blue Palace, she never thought she'd actually have to kill someone: that's what the guards were there for. Then the moment she faced real battle, there wasn't any thought about whether she would be able to kill or not. There was just her, the enemy, and the fire that burned in her veins every time their swords met or she blocked a blow with her shield."

"Fire?" asked Sigrun.

"Yes," Jonna nodded. "Ma said that it could make one cower beneath their shield in fear, or go berserk in the thickest lines of the enemy. She said that if you mastered the flame, in the thick of battle, you'll know what to do. Besides..." She patted the little pile where the sword, axe and shields were laying. "...your da didn't train us for nothing. We know how to defend ourselves, right? Don't you even remember last night? You bit off that Sjof's nose!"

"His whole nose?" Sigrun chuckled painfully, her ribs aching from last night's blows.

"Well, maybe not the whole nose," Jonna returned with a shrug. "But you bit off a pretty large piece of it. He was bleeding and cursing so much, I thought you'd taken off more. And besides that, we're still together. It'll be alright."

"If you say so," Sigrun replied, adjusting the meat slab on her face.

* * *

The morning passed slowly. In the east there were dark clouds and vapors that hid all lands beyond the Valtheim Towers. Upon the heights of the mountains north and east clouds lingered, but here in the valleys the skies were cool and clear. On the north rode rumbled the little cart with its four passengers. They might have enjoyed this bright, shining morning were it not for the events of last night. Sori was giving the two women a piece of his mind.

"Didn' get no trade fer all the trouble I went through in Whiterun," he stated. "Nothin' sold, nothin' gained."

Despite the constant assault of comments on how Sori had financially lost in their visit to Whiterun, Sigrun and Jonna seemed not to be paying much attention. Jonna, who had come off no worse for wear from the bar-fight, was whistling merrily. Sigrun's eye still stung, but the swelling was starting to go down.

As the morning gave way to noon, they all began to feel a rumbling in their stomachs. However, Sori insisted that they hold off their afternoon meal until they reached Heljarchen Hall. The lord of Heljarchen, he said, was a friend of his, though absent from home more than present due to differences with Idgrod, the Jarl of Morthal: one well compensated by the Emperor for her cooperation in both the Civil War and the enacting of the current set of laws. The servants were always there, however, and kept the order of the house and were permitted to welcome Sori and Dag if they happened to stop by.

"Who is the lord of Heljarchen?" Jonna asked.

"Only met 'im once," Sori began. "Never saw 'is face or 'eard 'im speak. We met in secret on a dark night in some place I can't remember. 'e was hooded an' cloaked an' we spoke through one of 'is servants."

"How do you know it was a he, then?" asked Sigrun.

"Don't," Sori shrugged. "Just made 'im a 'e in the tellin', you know? Like th' 'ero o' Kvatch: no one remembers nothin' about 'im or 'er, so they paint 'im or 'er as they see fit, see? Anyhow, long story short, I tell 'im, or 'er, about what I do and 'e must 'ave liked it. Told 'is servants to let me stay at 'is 'ouse if I 'appen to pass through."

"What do you know about him?" Sigrun inquired.

"Must 'ave been someone important," Sori continued. "What with all th' money they raised to build Heljarchen Hall."

"Okay, we understand," Jonna sighed. "We lost you money in Whiterun. It won't happen again."

"Damn straight it won't," Sori replied. "But never you mind that jus' right now, then; I'm tellin' a story. Th' lord o' 'eljarchen must 'ave 'ad the coin to build th' 'all. But as it goes, there must 'ave been some sort o' fallin' out with th' Jarl and th' Imperial Legion. Elsewise why always on th' run?"

"You never asked?" Sigrun asked.

"Eh, trust be told," Sori returned. "Wasn't exactly me best moment, that time we met. Seein' as 'ow I ended up in what looked like a prison, I was jus' grateful to be a free man th' next day. Didn' ask 'o it was that plucked me out o' what I was in at th' time. But that's that, then."

"Are you sure there's nothing else you know about him?" Sigrun asked.

"Why you wanna know?"

"Well, if he's been on the run from the Empire," Sigrun continued. "And if he has money, perhaps he would be willing to do something about what the Empire's been doing."

Sori chuckled. "Good luck findin' i'm. Never leaves so much as an address to find 'im at every time I visit."

At last the cart came to a stop at the bottom of a hill on the edge of the northern mountains. Near the top of that hill, nestled among the mountains, was Heljarchen Hall. They turned the cart off the road and braced themselves as they galloped up the uneven, bumpy foot-path that led from the main road up to the hall. One of the servants hailed them down, and Sori returned the greeting. Sori, who had been here before and trusted the servants of the lord, handed the reins of the wagon to the servant who greeted them, asking him to feed and tend to the horse while they went up to the house to introduce themselves to the servants. This done, they walked uphill the rest of the way - shorter than the ride up here - to the doors of the hall. They were welcomed into the hall and, since it was the afternoon meal, allowed to eat something of what the servants had made for themselves. Sigrun was impressed that even the servants of the lord of Heljarchen ate as well as their lord.

"The master is rarely home," the head servant explained. "But we have orders to always prepare hot meals. Should the lord, or his friends, arrive, there will always be food for them. If not, the lord has told us to eat it ourselves, so that we are strengthened in our duties and that the food be not wasted."

"Sounds like a decent fellow, your master," Jonna commented.

"Thank you, milady," the servant bowed. "Now, if you will excuse me..."

"Just a moment, now," Sigrun interjected. "Would it be possible to send your master a message?"

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible," the servant replied, his voice suddenly measured and wary where, a moment ago, it had been warm and cordial.

"I don't want to know where he is," Sigrun added. "I can't say here. See, we have business in the Pale, so we have to be going soon. But if you do see your master, I wanted to tell him something."

"And what would that be?" the servant inquired.

"The daughter of the Dragonborn," she spoke. "Seeks those of means who have an interest in protecting Skyrim and her people. If your master is of the same mind, I would ask him to seek me out."

"I see," the servant said in return. "I will see what we can do about that."

They finished their meal in relative silence, and Sori saved a warm bowl, a slice of cheese, a water-skin full of clean water and a small loaf of bread for the rest of the journey. Once they had eaten, Sori paid his thanks to the servants of the lord of Heljarchen, then took the women with him and, returning to the wagon, rode it back down the hill to the road and continued on their merry way.

* * *

The further into the mountains they passed, the colder it became. Soon little flakes of snow were drifting lazily down from the sky. Sori and Dag donned thick, woolen cloaks and the women wrapped themselves in the blankets they had brought with them: both of them thankful that they had prepared for colder weather. As they went, Sigrun was looking all around them at the frigid land. There were still trees here, fragrant pines, full firs, and hardy ironwoods, that were dressed in snow like shimmering garments of silver. The air also was clear and cold and she breathed deeply, feeling refreshed and invigorated with each breath: the slab of meat she threw away, for the pain and swelling were now no longer bothering her.

Jonna, however, was a little concerned.

"I thought we were going to Dawnstar in the Pale," she spoke up.

"That we are, now," Sori replied.

"By way of Morthal?" Jonna asked.

"No, can't go that way," Sori shook his head. "Our journey'd be twice as long, seein' as we'd 'ave to go through all o' th' plains o' Whiterun. An' it's far too close t' Haafingar. We'd run into plenty o' Imperial patrols down that ways. Then there's th' mists, as well."

"The mists?" Jonna inquired.

"Morthal's surrounded by 'em," Sori stated.

"Don't listen to him," Dag interjected. "He's been listening to too many stories in drunken bars."

"Shut up, lad!" Sori grumbled.

"Sir, it's a city in a marsh," Dag stated. "Of course there's mists around it."

"Aye," Sori nodded. "But no other marsh-borne cities 'as mists as snatch ye up an' drag ye away into th' blackness."

"When did these mists start?" Jonna asked.

"No one knows," shrugged Sori. "A lot o' folk blame the Ravencrone family: see, they's th' ones rulin' Morthal. They's a strange lot an' no mistake, cavortin' with wizards an' such."

"You don't trust wizards?" asked Jonna.

"I'm wary o' everythin' these days," Sori stated. "But in Morthal, there's a story about a wizard as came t' town over eighteen year ago. Since then, strange things happen in Morthal. A lot o' folk said 'e was th' start o' all their troubles. But whether 'e was th' start or no, 'e certainly wasn't th' fix o' th' problem. No one's been able t' lift th' mists from Morthal."

Just then, the cold wind that had been whistling through the trees on their right-hand, carried the softest howl that was not of the wind.

"There be wolves about these 'ills," Sori muttered. "We may meet 'em ere nightfall. Time t' earn yer keep, ladies."

"Good," Jonna grinned. "I've been itching for a fight. Sigrun, you hear that?"

But Sigrun did not answer. While they were talking of the mists, she was looking about them at the beautiful landscape. As the howling of wolves was heard, she noticed a familiar figure, hooded and cloaked and bearing a staff, briefly flit between the trees behind them.

"Sig, did you hear that?" Jonna repeated. Sigrun grunted her reply. "What's the matter?" She told Jonna about what she had seen.

"Do you think it's the same one we saw at the stones?" Jonna whispered. "Do you think he brought the wolves with him?"

"I don't know," Sigrun shook her head. "But there's something about him I don't like."

"Then keep your hand on your sword," Jonna advised, a hint of battle-hunger in her voice. "We might be in for a fight soon."

* * *

 **(AN: Ulcerative colitis recovery and _World of Warcraft_ take a lot of time away from writing. Not just me, but my brother [he doesn't have a laptop, so he has to use mine to access his characters]. And with low energy from UC, getting to the library is probably out of the question.)**

 **(And just to be clear, my brother did NOT suggest the "what if Skyrim was good" video series. That was not him! Like the creator of said video series, he worships _Oblivion_ , but it was not him. I didn't refer to that person by name because i didn't want to start anything with either him or those who agree with him)**

 **(I try to use everything i put in my stories, so even though i discovered that the path that led near Heljarchen Hall would put them out of the way of Morthal, i do intend on using that as well. And yes, i know that, legally, Heljarchen Hall is in the Pale. But I would also imagine that it is a point of contention among the three holds, Hjaalmarch, the Pale and Whiterun. It lies on a place that is relatively within striking distance of each hold, but it is also remote enough to be semi-autonomous from Dawnstar. That is why we have a 'lord of Heljarchen', someone who owes allegiance to the Jarl of Dawnstar but is a semi-autonomous noble, who is close enough to Morthal to cause problems. More on this in future chapters [which i hope will be coming sooner])**


	6. This One Time At the Windpeak Inn

**(AN: So after wiping at least seven times at the second Emerald Nightmare boss during raid night, i realized what everyone was thinking without saying: my DPS sucked. So i logged off _World of Warcraft_ and decided to do some writing. So at least you all get something good out of my epic failure.)**

 **(Looking back at info on all the Stormcloak-supporting Jarls from _Skyrim_ , it just goes to show you where the game developer's bias lay. All of them, and i do mean ALL of them, are either incompetent or just plain assholes. None of the Imperial-supporting Jarls are incompetent or mean to anyone. So obviously you can see that the game developers want you, the player, to be turned off by Stormcloak supporters so you can throw your lot in with the persecutors and their Altmeri masters. Even Balgruuf, who was bribed into accepting the Empire's White-Gold Concordant, is depicted as kind and noble.)**

* * *

 **This One Time At the Windpeak Inn**

The snow grew thicker the further the little cart carried on down the road. The howling of the wolves was now more than a whisper, and both Sigrun and Jonna had their hands upon the hafts of their weapons. For the present, they saw nary a sign of anything within the trees or upon the road. Yet the emptiness of the land was even more troublesome. Sigrun's eyes kept leaping back to the trees, half-expecting to see the hooded man at the head of a pack of wolves. But an hour passed and there was no sign of anyone in the trees.

About three o'clock, the wind began to pick up and snow was flying all around them. They could see little before their eyes, only dim gray shapes. While both Sori and Dag had gone this way before and were quite used to the weather, both Sigrun and Jonna were huddled in their thick blankets. Neither of them had been in a snow-storm of this strength and were wishing for a door between them and the weather, as well as some hot food to take the edge off the cold.

By and by they saw the silhouette of a walled fortress before them upon the road. The hearts of the women rose at the site, for they hoped that they might find some rest from the storm. But Sori told them that they would not be stopping thither.

"That there's Fort Dunstad," he said. "Th' Imperials 'ave garrison'd th' place since th' Civil War. Officially, they was supposed t' leave once 'order was restored' an' all that. Sixteen year an' order ain't restored enough fer th' Emperor's likin', I suppose."

"There's still trouble in Skyrim, sir," Dag stated. "The Forsworn in the west, chaos in the east and the Sons of Skyrim in the south..."

"It's an occupyin' force is what it is!" Sori retorted. "In sixteen year, how many Red Legions has come t' drive th' Forsworn or the dark elves outta Markarth or Windhelm, eh? None at all is what!"

"So we're _not_ stopping there?" asked Jonna.

"We're all out in th' middle o' nowhere," Sori began. "No 'elp fer miles 'round. An' we be naught but an old man, a boy an' two ladies. They'd 'ave their way with us, take our goods and think nothin' about it. Fer this, we gotta leave the main road."

"Is that a wise choice?" Sigrun asked. "Remember the wolves..."

"I'd rather take me chances with wolves than th' Imperial Legion," Sori stated. "Besides, you two 'ave t' earn yer pay, remember?"

"Can this little cart make it in this storm?" Jonna asked.

"Oh, don' worry 'bout that," Sori proudly stated. "Me an' Dag 'ave been tru worse scrapes than this." He pointed off to the right. "If we can make it up that there 'ill, there's an old abandoned fort we can take shelter in."

"Abandoned?" Sigrun asked. "Who's to say the Imperials aren't there as well?"

"I've been this way 'afore, lass," Sori answered. "Ain't no one's been back t' Fort Fellhammer since the Companions sacked it seventeen year ago."

Sigrun immediately perked her ears at this news. Her father had told her of his many adventures, including something of his time with the Companions. At one point in his travels, he had assisted the Companions in recapturing their ancient weapon Wuuthrad, the Axe of Ysgramor. For the first time since leaving home, she was excited: the thought of standing in the place where one of her father's adventures had taken place, come to life out of the words of bedtime stories, made her forget the cold and the fear of wolves.

"C'mon now," Sori said. "Let's get these 'ere wheels off'n the wagon."

The roads in Skyrim were usually well-traveled, even in winter-time or in the northern climes where there was always snow. Off the roads, however, carts could not travel in the deep drifts of snow. Those who traveled into Dawnstar or Winterhold knew how to travel swiftly in the snow, especially if a particularly nasty snowstorm befell the area. They would remove the wheels from off their wagons and affix sledge blades to the bottom, by the which they could pass swiftly over the deep snow.

Sori and Dag removed the wheels first, as they knew how to do so from their experience with the wagon. The ladies then carried the wheels into the back of the wagon, and brought out the sledge blades. With a little rope, these were now tied onto the naked axles. The four of them then guided the horse on foot northward off the main road.

The snow continued to swirl around them as they pushed forward, their feet disappearing into the drifts with each step. Before them they could see little, save for the shadows of tall cliffs looming on their left and right. The going was slow, and each step felt heavier than the last one. Yet the four of them willed their bodies to go on, to push forward. They had to reach Fort Fellhammer before night, or risk being attacked by the wolves. The howling wind wafted through the narrow canyon walls. On the wind came the rumor of wolf howls: first distant, then closer.

"Do you hear that?" Sigrun asked. "It's the wolves!"

"They be comin' fer us!" Sori shouted. "Dag, see t' th' 'orse! Ladies, draw steel! It's time t' earn yer keep!"

Jonna took up her axe and Sigrun the sword she had been loaned, then they seized their shields and stood on either side of the wagon. In the blinding snow, they could see nothing beyond the sides of the cliffs: as for the wolves, the howling was now coming from all around. The canyon was filled with their voices, and from behind them, on the path they had come, low growling could be heard.

"Come on!" Jonna shouted, banging the flat side of her axe against her shield. "Whose the first one to die today? Mama needs a new cloak!"

Sigrun tried in vain to suppress a smile. Even with danger looming, Jonna was unflappably calm and undisturbed: nay, rather that she was jubilant. All of her talk about being disappointed that the bandits they met on the road to Whiterun was not vain bluster: she actually wanted to fight. It felt good to have someone like this on her side, someone in whose martial skill and loyalty she trusted explicitly.

As if in answer to Jonna's taunt, a howl was heard from the cliffs above them. Then a growl was heard nearby and closer: from out of the mists a large grey wolf appeared, its body crouched low to the ground and teeth barred at Sigrun. Behind it two more appeared, pacing outward left and right to circle around the cart. Sigrun raised her shield, aiming her sword for a thrusting move. As the wolves circled around towards Jonna, her taunting became louder and more voracious.

Suddenly the first wolf leaped forward. Sigrun's knees bent and her shield went up, catching the full weight of the wolf as it came down upon her. In one swift move, she drove her sword through the side of the wolf, sending the beast to slide limp off the shield. Another wolf leaped at Jonna, but fell back as a swing of her axe cut deep into its upper jaw. Another wolf leaped at Sigrun, who drove her sword through its mouth: instinctively, the wolf's jaws bit down and Sigrun gave a cry. At her left, Jonna connected a well-aimed kick with the stomach of a wolf as it leaped towards her. From the cliffs another wolf leaped down towards the horse and snapped at it: the horse cried out in panic, rearing up and kicking at the air madly.

"Keep th' 'orse!" shouted Sori.

The young man seized the reins as Sori, an seasoned traveler unafraid of wolves, took the whip from beneath the cart's front seat and lashed the attacking wolf. The whip's bite frightened the wolf, who leaped back with a painful whine. Meanwhile, at the back of the cart, Sigrun and a black wolf were staring each other down: the woman had her sword readied and the wolf barred its fangs, each waiting for the other to strike first and leave themselves open. Jonna, meanwhile, had tossed her shield, taking down a wolf that was attempting to attack Sigrun from the side. The crack of the whip caught her attention, just as a wolf leaped from the cliff and down onto the back of the cart. Tossing her axe into the snow, Jonna seized the wolf with both hands and threw it off the cart and into the snow. The wolf rolled back onto its feet even as Jonna took up the axe again. The beast charged and she drove the axe into the side of its face: but this one was stronger than the others and wouldn't go down with just one blow, or be scared off by the same. After recoiling slightly from the axe blow, it charged again. But the heat and lust of battle was still hot upon Jonna; she drove the axe-blade into the wolf's skull again, then swiftly pulled it out and struck into the wolf's throat. The wolf went down, and Jonna wiped the sides of her axe-blade upon each cheek: now her pale face glistened with fresh blood, which seemed to make her even more ferocious. She shouted, roared and brandished the bloody axe-head at the wolves.

The wolves, seeing that these were no simple travelers and that a determined assault wouldn't be worth the cost, growled at the valiant defenders and dispersed back into the blizzard. Sigrun gave a whoop of triumph, her blood warmed within her veins from the battle, driving off the cold. Jonna was still shouting after the wolves, brandishing her axe at them defiantly. Dag was calming the horse down as Sori moved about the bodies.

"Gonna 'ave t' 'ide th' bodies," Sori said. "Th' blood'll draw 'em back. Well done, ladies. You've more than earned yer pay t'day."

Sigrun cleaned her blade, then gave a start. Jonna had approached her, still looking fierce with a wild look in her eyes and her chest heaving from the loud roars she had defiantly made.

"Do you remember those stories?" she gasped. "About your da and how he'd make the ground tremble when he spoke?"

Sigrun nodded. "The Dragon language."

"You need to teach me some of those words," Jonna said. "I need a good battle-cry to shout at our enemies. Now then..." She stuck the axe-blade into the wood of the cart. "...I'm going to search the bodies. There must be one here who'll make a good coat. After all, it would be a shame to let the bodies go to waste, right?"

"Right," Sigrun returned. "Here, I'll give you a hand."

They buried most of the bodies, but Jonna insisted on bringing one with them to Dawnstar, in case they found a tanner who could prepare the skin for use. Sori permitted this, but told Jonna that she would have to protect them if any more wolves showed up. The rest of that day was spent pushing forward through the snow, trying to find Fort Fellhammer before nightfall. There were no more wolf attacks, but the howling continued on without hindrance. The snow also continued to fall and obscure their sight.

* * *

Just as night was beginning to fall and the shadows grew thicker, in the midst of the blizzard came the sound of Sori's voice, shouting for thanks. The shadows of a ruined fort, half-buried in the snow, appeared before them. Pushing forward, they came to the walls of the fort and brought the cart into the shelter of what had once been the fort's stable. Here the wind's chilling bite was reduced to nothing but a distant howl, and they could spend the night in relative peace.

Once they were under a roof, Sori and Dag unhitched the wagon and placed it to one side of the stable. Sori then removed a horse-blanket from the wagon and covered the horse with it, while he sent Dag with the women to find a place to sleep for the night. Unfortunately for Sigrun and Jonna, they would be forced to sleep huddled together: even without the wind, it was still bitingly cold. The three of them pawed about in the blown snow on the ground, piling it up to help block the wind. Dag suddenly gave a cry and leaped back from where he had been pawing at the snow. The girls came over to where he had been digging and saw a skull with frozen skin lying buried in the snow.

"I wonder how long it's been here," Jonna muttered. "Could it be a draugr? You know, I've heard they can grow to monstrous size."

"Ain't no ruins 'round here'bouts," said Sori. "I'd say this 'ere poor bastard died recently. Let 'im lie: ain't nothin' good come from disrespectin' th' dead."

"I'm not sleeping here if there's a dead body here!" Dag squealed.

"Fine, then," sighed Sigrun. "We'll dig the body out and move it."

Sigrun and Jonna got to work brushing the snow away from the body. Within a few minutes, they had removed all the snow from the body. As they were removing the body, something fell out of the body's hands and onto the pile of snow they had been building. Jonna and Sigrun placed the body on the other side of the stables, then made their way back to the cart. Sigrun, however, noticed what had fallen from the body's hands and picked it up: it was large and bound in old leather that had been cured enough to survive the weather. Sigrun stowed it away as they wrapped themselves in their blankets and prepared for the night.

They ate a sparse meal in the steadily dwindling light. Then they huddled together for warmth, with Sori lying next to the wagon, Dag to his left, and Sigrun and Jonna to his left. The howl of wolves and the wind sang the four travelers to sleep. Jonna remained awake, for she was worried that the wolves would return, smelling the scent of blood from the wolf she had taken. Sigrun dreamed of a figure shrouded in darkness, stalking them in the light of the moons. At one point it took the appearance of a tall, hooded figure bearing a staff. Then it transformed into a handsome-faced young man, grinning at her with a wolfish grin. Then it became a howling, red-eyed wolf, snarling at her with a pack of a dozen others. Dag dreamed of that skeletal body with gray-green, frozen skin, walking toward him with hands outstretched. Sori snored loudly and contently.

* * *

The storm had abated by the time morning came. Jonna told them that no wolves had entered the ruins of the fort during the night: only their howling. They ate a cold breakfast, then hitched the horse back to the wagon and prepared to leave the fort. Sigrun kept the folio safely in her bag, still unsure what it was that she had in her possession. Still, it intrigued her how that body they found in the fort was willing to hold onto it unto death rather than burn it to try to stay alive.

During that morning, the cart carried on through snow that was in many places almost knee deep. They made a north-west line, according to the direction Sori stated that would take them back to the main road. Their path was filled with large pines and iron-wood trees, dressed in snow, which obscured the view of much ahead of them. Just above the tops of the trees, the gray heights of a tall mountain could be seen, peaking its head above everything else.

"Where are we?" Sigrun asked.

"Deep in th' Pale," Sori answered. "Them 'ills up there be th' ring o' 'ills surroundin' th' Dwarven ruins o' Mzinchaleft."

"Dwemer ruins, sir, not Dwarven," Dag clarified. "Short humans are Dwarves. These were the Dwemer."

"They was th' Dwarves when th' giants met 'em," Sori returned. "Erryone was a dwarf t' them, bein' as they was twelve feet tall 'n all."

Sigrun did not respond. She had heard stories of the Dwemer ruins of Mzinchaleft, where her mother had almost met her end before she met Eirik. What she heard were horrible, frightening tales of bronze machines with the strength of five, sightless monsters with poison on their teeth, and a deep darkness greater than night. She hoped that, whatever happened in her future travels, she would never be forced to enter one of those ruins.

As they traveled on, the trees began to thin out before them. Sori said that this meant they were nearing the road. As they pressed onward, a pile of snow from one of the trees overhead crashed down, showering them with freezing snow. They looked at the trees to see where it was coming from, then noticed that the other trees around them were quivering. It did not take long for them to realize that the entire ground was shaking.

"Shor's balls!" Sori muttered under his breath.

"What is it?" Sigrun asked.

"Giants," Sori returned. "We ain't that far from th' Red Road Pass. I've seen 'em gather there'bouts."

"A real giant?" Jonna chuckled. "It'd be amazing to see one in person."

"Yeah, not so amazin' if ye get 'it by its club," Sori retorted. "I've seen 'em chuck a full grown man a 'undred feet into th' sky at a 'it."

From out of the trees there appeared a twelve-foot tall giant, dressed in thick fur clothes from its massive shoulders to its feet, buried in the snow. Its head was covered in long, stringy gray hair that was dappled in snow, and in one hand it dragged a massive club through the snow behind it. The four crouched where they stood at Sori's insistence, trying to make themselves as small and unnoticeable as possible; according to him, giants would not attack unless provoked. The massive creature strode through the trees, then turned to the little cart. The four of them were held in its dark gaze for far too long. None of them dared to move, else a misstep would cause the giant to attack. The giant snorted, then lumbered on through the forest on its way.

"That was a close'un," Sori whispered. "Let's get movin' a'fore 'e come back."

The little party pushed on through the snow; it was not far from the road, which was much easier to navigate than the snow-clad trackless paths off such. The rest of the journey was uneventful; no wolves or other giants attacked them, nor did they see or hear so much as a sign of such. The road passed between large boulders on either side, steadily going upward into the heights of some of Skyrim's tallest peaks. At length, the path began to slope down from the heights and they felt a blast of chill wind that bit through even the thickest clothing. The road continued down into a cove sheltered with tall cliffs on both sides and behind on the back-side of the mountain. In that cove was a town built on the shores of the sea, in the style of most towns in Skyrim; thatched buildings made of wood and a longhouse near the center of the town. Closer to the shore there were several docks where ships with red and black sails were anchored.

"'Ere we are, ladies," Sori said, gesturing to the town. "Dawnstar, th' capital o' th' Pale 'old. Them ships down there be Company ships."

"Which company?" Sigrun asked.

"The East Empire Company," Dag answered.

"Oblivion take 'em all," Sori spat. "They are th' 'and o' th' Emp'ror's will in these parts. Them as 'ave dealin's with th' Empire go through 'em firs'."

"Who's the Jarl of Dawnstar?" Jonna asked.

"Brina Merilis," Sori returned. "A traitor if ere there were'un. Even took up an Imperial name, like as not!"

"Who was she?" Sigrun asked.

"Born a rich family outside o' Skyrim," Sori continued. "Joined th' Imperial Legion durin' th' Great War. Then came back as th' Empire's spy and lap-dog. Durin' th' Civil War, th' Pale was 'anded o'er to th' Empire at some odd peace conference and th' old Jarl Skald was forced to abdicate. Then Brina became Jarl, an' she did erry'thing th' Emp'ror told 'er t' do."

"She's well respected," Dag stated. "The people of Dawnstar look up to her, they expect her to solve their problems."

"Ay," Sori nodded. "They don' know that b*tch causes 'alf their problems." He then apologized to the ladies.

The little group continued into the town, pulling up to a thatched building that was close to the edge of town. Here Sori hitched the wagon to the hitching post, then led the way into the building. Over the door was a sign with a gust of wind carved upon it: the Windpeak Inn as Sori called it. Inside they entered the common room of an inn, with a cozy fire burning upon the hearth. There were a few people in the inn at the moment, some warming themselves by the fire, others drinking by themselves at the tables. Sori and Dag went to the bar and were chatting it up with the bartender. Something seemed to be the problem, however.

"Shor's balls!" exclaimed Sori. "That's more'an twice what it was las' time I was 'ere'bouts."

"Sad to say it, Sori," the bartender replied. "Empire taxes everything. Locally-made beer and mead are outlawed here, as you know. This isn't Whiterun."

"Ay, things ain't much better there either," Sori grumbled. "Alright, I'll see what I can do."

He produced a large bag of money from beneath his cloak, then placed it on the bar and doled out what the bartender had asked. Once this was done, he led Dag and the women to one of the tables, where they sat down.

"Alright, time t' settle accounts," Sori stated. He then divided the money up between his apprentice and the two guards. Depsite his comments about cutting their pay for their stay in the Dragonsreach prison, what they received was considerable.

"So, what happens next?" he asked. "I mean, fer you ladies. Dag an' I still 'ave bus'ness t' do 'ere'bouts. Y'all ain't got nuthin' t' do wit us; yer contract is fulfilled."

"Where will you go after this?" Jonna asked.

"Wherever th' coin is," Sori returned. "We got friends all 'round th' 'olds. We make quite a pretty septim runnin' illegal goods into th' Imperial-'eld 'olds."

"You have money," Sigrun stated. "The Lord of Heljarchen, whoever he is, has some too. Why don't you contact him for us? We can start getting things moving..."

Sori sighed. "I know what ye say, lass. An' I'd love t' 'elp. But I'm an old man: fightin' ain't in me. Besides, jus' money ain't gonna convince th' Emp'ror t' give us back our land. You'd need folk willin' t' fight fer their land: and like ye saw in Whiterun, not many are willin' t' risk endin' up dead like that."

"We can't just do nothing!" Sigrun replied.

"If ye can find folk as got nothin' t' lose," Sori stated. "Then maybe some ol' bastard'll be willin' t' give ye th' funds. But what about ye? I'd 'ate t' see ye end up in worse straits after all we've been through."

"We can take care of ourselves," Jonna answered.

Sori laughed. "If I 'ad a gold septim erry'time some wide-eyed adventurer said them words, I'd be a rich man! Mos' o' them end up dead within days o' settin' out."

"That's pretty rich," Jonna retorted. "Considering we saved you from those women bandits, and the wolves."

"I ain't sayin' yer weak," Sori shook his head. "I'm jus' sayin' ye need t' take care o' yerselfs. Mos' folk in Skyrim these days ain't as generous as meself. 'specially this close t' Eastmarch."

Within a few minutes, their food and drinks arrived: Sori told them that it was on him as a parting gift. The men ate only a little, then Sori sent Dag to find a friend of his. Once this was done, Sori drained his mug and bade farewell to Sigrun and Jonna.

"If ye be lookin' fer more work," he said. "Yer in th' bes' place t' look fer it. Ask 'round: jus' keep a wary eye. An' don't lose this one 'ere." He said to Sigrun, pointing at Jonna.

"I have no intention of leaving her," Sigrun stated. "Not yet, at least."

"Good," Sori stated. "'Cuz she's clearly th' bes' fighter o' th' two o' ye." Jonna beamed proudly while Sigrun rolled her eyes. With that, Sori left the two women at their table. As he was leaving, Jonna took a sip of her mug, then broke the silence.

"So, what do you think?" she asked. "We're clear on the other side of Skyrim. Never been this far away from home, huh?" Sigrun nodded. "It's amazing, isn't it? Haven't seen this much of the world my entire life."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," Sigrun nodded.

"Aren't you?" asked Jonna. "I thought you were enjoying this adventure also."

"I was, I mean, I am," Sigrun returned. "I never thought the world was this big. And there's so much to see still."

"I know, right?" Jonna smiled. "Where should we go next?"

Sigrun did not immediately speak. She wanted to begin asking around about her sister, but then there was also the state of Skyrim that was brought into mind upon seeing the bodies on the walls of Whiterun. Finding people interested in saving the land would be a good place to start, though she had no idea how to begin. Then again, there was the folio that she had found in the ruins of Fort Fellhammer. She reached into her bag that had been placed beside her chair, untied the top, and was pulling it up onto the table.

"Well met, kinswomen!" an old man greeted them. Sigrun was startled by the suddenness of his approach. He was dressed in gray, weather-beaten traveling robes, and wore a thick scarf about his neck. His head was bald, but a long gray beard hanged down from his chin.

"I was eavesdropping just a moment ago," the old man said. "And I heard that you ladies might be looking for work. If that's the case, I have some for you, if you're interested."

"First, we'd like to know your name," Jonna returned.

"Havi the Spell-sword," the old man answered. "Though you may have heard of me."

"Sorry, we haven't," Sigrun replied.

Havi scoffed. "You haven't heard of Havi the Spell-sword, traveler and master magician? I've been all over the north-lands, from High Rock to Morrowind. I've learned from the best swordsmen and the best mages: even those Telvanni bastards, and they don't teach their tricks to those outside of their House, to say nothing of non-Dunmer."

"We've never heard of you before," Jonna returned. "What is it you want?"

"Oh, right to the point, eh?" Havi answered. "Straight-forwardness in a woman: I admire that. Now then, as I said, I'm a spell-sword. But those fools from the College of Winterhold stole my enchanted sword. Without it, I'm not much use. I'd be very grateful if you brought it back: and I'd be willing to pay for it."

"You said you learned magic, right?" Jonna asked. "Why can't you just get the sword yourself?"

"What is this, a Thalmor interrogation?" Havi returned.

"Well, if you're as powerful as you say you are," Jonna stated. "I want to know why you can't get your own sword back."

Havi laughed. "Well, the mages at Winterhold might be fools, but they're smart fools, as paradoxical as that sounds. They've put up magical barriers around the College, such that no one can teleport in or out: neither would they be fooled by a cloaking spell. And I can't just walk up and ask for it, as they know me at the College and wouldn't just give it back at a word."

"Alright," Jonna nodded. "We might be interested."

"I have a few questions to ask you," Sigrun returned. "You said you'd pay us for your sword. How much?"

"More than it's worth, I'd say," Havi evasively answered.

"Be more specific," Jonna retorted.

"Well, gold septims, obviously," Havi stated. "But something a bit more useful to shieldmaidens such as yourselves, if my time adventuring has taught me anything."

"What's that?" Sigrun asked.

"My services," he replied. "Now, of course, I won't just throw my life away and follow after you like a loyal hound. But if our paths cross again, I'd think twice before walking on past you. Maybe, if I'm in a good mood, I'd be willing to let you share in the glory of my adventures."

"A bit full of yourself, aren't you, old man?" Jonna asked.

"Maybe, but who cares," Havi chuckled. "I need to be confident in my abilities in my travels, so I can sell them affectively. Besides, I'm not looking to settle down, nor do I care about the opinions of women. They get in the way of important things."

"Asshole!" Jonna snapped.

"Now, now," Havi added, holding up one hand in interjection. "If I was an old maid, you'd be accepting my words as sound wisdom born of learned experience without a second thought. But the truth is the truth: women want a man to settle down and focus on them, instead of learning the secrets of magicka or helping the people of Skyrim."

"Wait a minute," Sigrun interjected. "Helping the people of Skyrim?"

"Yea," Havi nodded. "I fought in the Great War, but I wasn't bought off by the Empire's lies of a costly victory: it was a shameful defeat, in which the Dominion gained everything it fought for, one way or another, and the Empire lost. I traveled around quite a bit, learning what I could; mostly in Hammerfell, as they were the ones who had driven the Dominion out of their land by themselves, without the help of the Empire. When I heard about the Civil War and things happening in Skyrim, I came back. Then I found that to be nothing but lies and false hope."

"Why?" Sigrun asked.

"I heard the stories of dragons in Skyrim," Havi stated. "Real life dragons, not those damned cliff-racers like in Morrowind: actual, fire-breathing lizards. Then I heard about the Dragonborn, the only one that could kill the dragons. What I would have given to meet him in person! Maybe things would have been different if I had gotten here sooner. But then I learned about the peace summit between Ulfric and the Empire, overseen by the Dragonborn no less! He made the same mistake Titus Mede made in the Great War!"

"What mistake?" Sigrun returned, now being equally as irritated as Jonna.

"The Dragonborn gave the Empire an inch by negotiating with them," Havi returned. "And with that inch, they took everything. Now look at us! Divided on both fronts, impoverished beyond our means, fucking enslaved! He should have killed Tullius when he had the chance!"

"I don't think you have any right to be criticizing what he did!" Sigrun retorted.

"Why?" Havi returned. "You wanna do something about it?"

"I wouldn't threaten her if I were you, 'friend,'" Jonna interjected. "She bit off a man's nose in a bar-fight who did likewise."

"Is that so?" Havi chuckled. "Then maybe you could bite the noses off those Winterhold mages while you're at it. I'll be right here, waiting for your return."

"No-fucking-way!" Jonna retorted.

"Actually," Sigrun sighed. "We'll do it. Just tell us what's the best way into Winterhold. We've..." She wanted to say '...never been away from home', but thought that this wouldn't be the best way to sell their skills either. "...never been this far north."

"Ah, I see," Havi nodded. "Well, the fastest way to Winterhold is by the main road."

"We can't go that way," Sigrun replied.

"Trouble with the Imperials?" Havi chuckled. "Good on you. You're tougher than I imagined. Well, if you want to avoid the Imperials, then the longer, harder way is going to be your choice. Just take the road south out of town, then once it forks west, head off the road east into the mountains until you find the lighthouse. From there, you go down into the glacial valley around the Dwemer ruins of Alftand: go to the southern end of the valley, there you'll find the Wayward Pass that leads through Mount Anthor and rejoins the North-East Road. You can follow that all the way to Winterhold."

"Thank you for the offer, Havi," Jonna interjected. "But we..."

"We'll think it over," Sigrun added. "My sister and I have been long on the road these past few days and were looking forward to spending the night here. In the morning, we'll decide one way or another."

"Fine by me," Havi replied. "I'm not getting any younger." With that, he rose from their table and wandered aimlessly about the common room.

"I don't like him," Jonna said, shaking her head. "He sounds like a mighty prick to me. Like that one guy from your Da's stories. What was his name again, B*tch-siss?"

"Crixus, Jons," Sigrun replied. "Servius Crixus."

"You're not actually thinking about taking him up on his offer, are you?"

"Why not?" Sigrun asked. "We need work and you want to go adventuring. What better way of doing that than going to the College of Winterhold?"

"But from him?" Jonna asked. "Of all people, couldn't we find someone better?"

"He's the first person we've met with an interest in Skyrim's fate," Sigrun replied. "Someone who..."

"...Has nothing to lose?" Jonna jested. "Still, he just seems a bit full of himself."

"Maybe he is," Sigrun said. "But for now, we can't be picky about who we need to help us."

"I don't see it as picky," Jonna returned. "Like with your Da's stories. Crixus found a reason to b*tch about every little thing about the Stormcloaks, whether warranted or not. We can't give our enemies a thing to b*tch about concerning us, and I say that includes the company we keep."

"Dually noted," Sigrun said, then took a sip of her mug.

After they had eaten and drank, they purchased for themselves rooms for the night: only a one-bed room, to save on money. As they had grown up together, and had no thought of the perverted thoughts of others, the two shared the bed. It was the first time since they left home where they had slept in a proper bed.

* * *

 **(AN: Finally got a new chapter out! In the long interval, I came up with half a dozen more ideas for this story. I just hope I don't swamp myself in ideas, or lose much writing time as a result of the fruitless job search [or _World of Warcraft_ ])**

 **(Havi was an idea for an interesting character that just sort of came up out of thin air. He's not particularly a douche, he just doesn't care: you know, if you hang around people in their 40s and 50s as long as i have, you start to notice that they speak their minds without a care to who they hurt. Of course, being a mage would make one rather full of themselves, if you think about it.)**


	7. A Stolen Sword

**(AN: Big stuff happening in this chapter. Let's just hope i can pull myself into a position where i can actually get some work done here. It's not necessarily the distractions, merely the disinterest in writing [or doing anything].)**

* * *

 **A Stolen Sword**

Their night's rest was disturbed by loud cries, a ringing bell, and the entire Windpeak Inn alight. Sigrun and Jonna awoke as one to find smoke filling their bedroom. As they bent down in coughing, they found that closer to the ground, the smoke was not as strong.

"Get the bags!" Sigrun shouted.

Jonna crawled towards the other side of the room, where they had stowed their gear for the night. Sigrun, meanwhile, was up at the door: it didn't feel hot, but the door didn't budge when she tried to push it open. Again and again she pushed, though the work was strenuous under the thick cloud of smoke, but to no avail.

"Sig!" Jonna cried out, tossing her axe across the floor. Sigrun leaned down, picked it up, and went at the crack where the door met the wall. The door didn't budge on the first, second, third, or even fourth swing: but by the seventh swing, there was a terrible crack of wood. Sigrun kicked the door down, then, keeping low to the ground, ran out into the common room with Jonna carrying on behind her. When they came to the inn's main door, they found this was locked from the outside as well: as if that were not bad enough, the smoke was starting to get to them as well.

"The window!" Jonna shouted.

She threw the sack at the window, which broke from the force of the hit. Sigrun then ran to the window and crawled out, with Jonna following closely behind her. Once they reached the outside, they were both struck by the chilling cold of the northern sea wind: both of them were reminded that they had not worn cloaks to bed, nor their warm, travel clothing. All around they could hear the sounds of the townspeople of Dawnstar shouting at the burning inn. Foremost on their lips, besides concerns over the safety of their homes and where they would be getting beer in the future, were their ideas of who might be responsible for the fire.

"Did anyone see who started it?"

"I did! Three of them Thalmor soldiers!"

"Shh! Not so loud, now! You know what they can do to you!"

"I've had enough of this hiding! They can't do this to us!"

"Clearly they can."

"Maybe it was that old man that came in last night."

"Or those two lying out front of the inn?"

"Why would they set the inn a'fire and leave themselves inside?"

"No one would blame them?"

"Call the Jarl! She'll get to the bottom of this!"

Throughout the whole ordeal, several altruistic townsfolk were running to the nearest well, bringing back buckets of water to dump on the fire. Unfortunately, the buckets sloshed quite a bit and less water made it to the burning inn than was pulled up. Sigrun and Jonna walked away from the burning inn and wrapped themselves in their cloaks; some of the townspeople kept a wide berth around them, as they were worried that they had started the fire. A few minutes passed of finger-pointing and cries of terror when a group of Imperial soldiers approached the gathering crowd. In their midst was an old Nord woman wrapped in a rich robe.

"What's all this commotion?" the old Nord asked. "You're all out of doors after curfew!"

"Someone set the inn a'fire!"

"Not someone, them!" a Dunmer shouted, pointing at Sigrun and Jonna.

"Nay, it wasn't them!" another interjected. "It was that strange old man that's been prying about town lately."

"It was the Thalmor!" the brave old Nord man retorted. "I saw them running away from the inn just moments before the flames started!"

"Silence!" the richly-dressed Nord shouted. "All of you will be silent, or all have you all imprisoned for curfew violations!" Some of the commotion started to calm down, but there were still a few murmurs, masked by the crackling flames.

"Now then," the rich Nord replied. "As your Jarl, I remind you that the Thalmor are our friends, permitted to operate in Skyrim by order of the Emperor. They are under the protection of the Emperor and no false accusations or retaliatory actions will be carried out against them, under pain of death and penalty of confiscation of goods."

"What about them girls?" the Dunmer asked.

"Ay!" a toothless, old Nord woman with a croaking voice added. "Saw 'em chattin' it up with that ol' busybody Havi!"

"It was he as set the fire, not these girls!" another shouted.

"Alright, that's enough!" the Jarl retorted. "Guards, take these two to the prison. Let them work in the mines until they learn respect for their Jarl."

"Yes, sir!" one of the Imperials returned.

"How can she do this!" the man exclaimed. "She's always been a friend to the people of Dawnstar."

"Shut up, old snow-back!" the Imperial guard snapped.

"'Ave mercy on an old woman!" the woman begged. "I can't work in no mines! It was them as set the inn a'fire! Why am I bein' punished an' them allowed to go fr..." At a nod from the Jarl, the Imperial soldier struck the old woman in the face with the pommel of his sword.

"In the Legion," the Jarl announced. "Insubordination was dealt with by hard labor. As long as I rule Dawnstar, I will have order!" She then turned to Sigrun and Jonna.

"As for you two," she said to them. "What are your names and what is your business here?"

"We're bodyguards," Sigrun began. "We came up here with..."

"No one!" Jonna interjected. "We're just two sisters, adventuring through Skyrim."

"Sellswords, eh?" the Jarl returned. "Bringing your troubles to my city, are you? I have half a mind to throw you in jail with those two."

"We didn't start the fire," Sigrun replied. "We were in the middle of it just now, trying to escape."

"You can smell the smoke on our clothes, if you don't believe..."

"Silence!" the Jarl snapped. "Imperial Law dictates that one is guilty until proven innocent: after all, we would never judge an innocent man. Can you prove that you did not start the fire?"

Immediately, Sigrun's thoughts went to the little box of tinder in their pack. They hadn't had time to use it, as their first departure had been at night, and Sori had warned them about lighting a fire in Fort Fellhammer, as it would alert the Imperial camp just a short distance away. Now they would have to submit themselves to a search and likely be caught with the tinder and blamed for the fire.

"The innkeeper!" Jonna interjected. "He saw us to our rooms. He'd also be the last one to go to sleep once the common room closed, right? If we got out of our room, he would know it."

"Hmm," the Jarl mused. "We'll question the innkeeper. In the meantime, you will surrender all of your goods to my guards for search."

"What?" Sigrun exclaimed. "No!"

"Violating my orders?" the Jarl returned. "Maybe you _did_ start the fire. After all, an innocent person wouldn't deny a simple search, would they?"

Sigrun realized they had fallen into a trap. She saw no way out for them: at their backs the fire blazed on, despite the futile attempts of the villagers to put the flames out. Before them was an angry mob out for blood, and between them and that mob were the Imperial Red Legions under the command of the Jarl of Dawnstar, who would follow her orders without question: even if it meant killing their captives.

"No," Sigrun sighed.

"Smart girl," the Jarl stated. "Turn out your bags now. I'll send for the innkeeper once we've searched you...thoroughly."

Without asking, the guards took the bags from the two women and began to remove the contents. Within moments, Jonna buried her face in her hand and Sigrun sighed: the guards pulled out Jonna's sword and ax very first.

"Very interesting," the Jarl noted. "I'm sure you know that Imperial Law forbids the carrying of weapons within the limits of any city in the province."

"I thought you cared for us, outsider!" one of the townspeople shouted. "We've always been able to protect ourselves in our own cities, ever since Ysgramor..."

"Take him to the jail also!" the Jarl ordered. Two guards went towards the man in question. The Jarl then turned to the two ladies. "What this looks like," she said. "Is two women smuggling illegal weapons into my city under the guise of being sellswords. Not to worry, though: you'll be more than glad to tell us all after you've spent a few days in prison..."

Suddenly there was a burst of fire from one of the other houses in the town. All eyes turned towards the explosion, when suddenly the Jarl and both of her guards were found face down in the snow. Jonna was tossed the bag and Sigrun the sword and axe; both were shocked and stunned into silence, not merely by this sudden turn of events, but also by the one who had thrown them their gear and weapons.

It was the figure in black.

"Run, now!" an old man's voice urged from beneath the hood. One hand leaned upon a tall staff, and the right hand gestured back down the road they had come from. "The way is clear!"

"Who are you?" Sigrun asked. "What do you want from us?"

"Go, now!" the old man repeated. "They will not stay down for long! We will speak later."

"Come on, Sig!" Jonna cried out. "You heard the man, let's run!"

* * *

The two women could not recall another time they ran as fast as they did that early morning. No bear or wolf they had encountered in the woods around Lakeview Manor had incited such urgency in them as now pushed them onward. At any moment they feared that the jig would be up and they would soon hear the sounds of hooves upon the snowy road behind them. Once they heard that, it would only be a matter of time before the Imperial guards caught them and brought them back in chains to Dawnstar: then what hell would befall them then! Yet for the present, there was no sound of pursuit, only the distant, steadily fading, glimmer of the burning Windpeak Inn.

The moons were out again and shining brightly; it was fortunate for them that this was so, else they would have missed the turn of the road. At the sign, they paused only for a short while to take wind, before realizing that they were shivering cold. In their hurry to leave Dawnstar, the two women hadn't had time to dress themselves in much more than their usual tunic and trousers. They donned their warm cloaks from their bags and girt their sheaths upon their belts, then left the road and turned east. For the rest of that night they continued east, looking for the sight of the lighthouse as they had been directed. By the time they finally found it, weariness had overcame them yet again and they practically stumbled inside and fell asleep as soon as they sat themselves against the inner wall.

When morning came, they found themselves both alive and more or less well. Sigrun said a prayer of thanks to the Nine Divines, for she was certain that they had had help in surviving the cold night.

"Nords don't freeze as easily as southerners," Jonna mused. "We have good blood. Don't you remember all those stories your Da told you about his adventures? He never froze in them, and he must have been in worse snows than this."

"Maybe," Sigrun said. "But I feel safer praying just the same."

They ate from the food in their bags, only to discover that they were dangerously low. They might be able to make the food last them until Winterhold, if they were lucky, but even that would not be without rationing it very thin. Jonna groaned at this misfortune, but Sigrun was silent.

"Eat up, now," she said. "We have to reach the Wayward Pass before nightfall."

"Why?" Jonna inquired. "What's the rush? Do you think we're being followed?"

"By more than one person," Sigrun returned.

"How?" asked Jonna.

"You saw him, didn't you?" Sigrun replied. "The old man in black."

Jonna nodded sheepishly. "I saw an old man in black save us from the Imperial Guards. I...you don't think it was the same one you saw by the Guardian Stones?"

"I'm certain of it," Sigrun stated.

"But you said that he had wolves with him the last time," Jonna said.

"I didn't know what I saw," Sigrun returned. "I thought he chased off the wolves the first time. But when he kept appearing, I was worried. But this was the first time he spoke to me; he saved us from the guards, he also said we'd speak again. I wonder what he means by that."

"But you said more than one person," Jonna noted. "And you only mentioned one. The others, I take it, are the Imperial Guards?"

"And others," Sigrun said, a worried look on her face. "Do you remember what they were saying when we escaped the inn?"

"Barely," Jonna answered. "There was a lot of screaming and yelling. I think they were blaming us for starting the fire. Of course, since we ran, they'll think we're _definitely_ guilty."

"I think it might have been the Thalmor," Sigrun stated.

Jonna scoffed. "Well, if you don't remember, your Da has done his best to keep the Thalmor out of Skyrim. Every agent that is found crossing into the Rift or Falkreath ends up dead, if I recall. I think he was even part of a raid on a Thalmor fort up north during the Civil War."

"That was years ago," Sigrun stated. "Things may have changed."

"But why would the Thalmor burn down an inn?" Jonna asked. "I thought they played politics and only hunted down Talos worshipers."

"Well, we're certainly Talos worshipers," Sigrun chuckled. "Even if we don't bear Hjalti's hammer. But if they're following us, I think it's because of this." Sigrun reached into her sack and pulled out the folio she had recovered from Fort Fellhammer.

"What's that?" Jonna asked. "Where did you get that?"

"I found it on our friend in Fort Fellhammer," Sigrun replied. "He seemed to be keeping it close. I thought: why wouldn't he burn it to save himself from the cold? Figured it must be important."

"Well, what is it?" Jonna repeated.

"I haven't opened it," Sigrun answered. "I had intended on opening it at breakfast at the Windpeak Inn, but, well, you know..."

"Do you think the Thalmor knew you had this?" Jonna asked. "And that's why they set fire to the inn?" She gasped. "What could it be!"

"Well, we _are_ up north," Sigrun stated. "As far as _how_ they knew, I can't say. Maybe someone saw me with it."

"Aren't you going to open it?" Jonna asked again.

Sigrun opened the foilo and began perusing the pages briefly before flipping over to the next one. Most of them were lengthy reports on the wealthy and influential people in Skyrim. Most of the names she did not recognize, but there were a few were in fact very familiar: she recognized the names of High Queen Elisif, Jarl Lysa of Falkreath, and Eirik Bjornsson.

"Jons, Da's name is in this," Sigrun said warily. Jonna looked at the folio.

"'Firstborn of the Sons of Skyrim,'" Jonna read. "'Former member of the Stormcloak rebellion and ex-Harbinger of the Companions.' Gods above! Look at what it says here..." She pointed with her finger to a line in the portion dedicated to Sigrun's father: Location - Known.

"I don't think I like the looks of this," Sigrun said warily.

"Neither do I," Jonna added, shaking her head. As Sigrun began continuing to pour through the pages, a missive fell out from between a few pages. Jonna picked it up and quickly examined it.

"Sig," she said. "Come, take a look at this. It fell out of the folio while you were looking through it. Looks important."

Sigrun took the missive and read it aloud to both of them.

' _Written on the first day of Second Seed, the 220th year of the Fourth Era. Ordered to destroy all documents gathered by Thalmor agents in Skyrim upon receiving this note._ '

"Sounds pretty serious," Jonna mused aloud. "Like someone didn't want this list to be found."

"Maybe," Sigrun said aloud. "This note is almost four months old, and this folio isn't exactly empty. Maybe our friend from the fort was on the run. Maybe he took this folio from the Thalmor and tried to escape with it, but the weather caught up to him."

"It must have been pretty important," Jonna added. "For him to take it with him to his grave."

"I'm guessing someone at the inn saw me with it," Sigrun said. "And reported it to the Thalmor."

"That's why they set the inn on fire," Jonna deduced. "Destroy the evidence."

"Exactly," Sigrun nodded, holding up the folio. "As long as we have this, we're in danger."

"Well, what _should_ we do, then?" Jonna asked. "It's not like we know anyone to take it to around here. The closest we'd come is Riften, and I've heard some unsettling rumors about it."

"What rumors?" Sigrun asked.

"Well, you see, I've been planning this little adventure for years," Jonna began. "Your Da and the Sons of Skyrim might have a firm grasp on Falkreath, but things are different in the Rift. The Snow-Shod clan died without an heir, and Hemming Black-Briar became Jarl of Riften. He welcomed back the Thieves Guild and the rest of the Black-Briar clan, all of whom seemed to have recovered the wealth your Da took from them when they were kicked out of Riften."

"How does this involve us?" Sigrun asked.

"Our paths might have led us to Riften in time," Jonna stated. "So I thought that was useful information in the long-run. As far as how it affects us now, the Rift is supposed to be under the protection of the Sons of Skyrim: but as things are right now, it might not be very safe. Your Ma was very clear about how the Black-Briars were in the pocket of the Empire, and if they're back in power, it's a safe guess that they're in the pocket of the Thalmor as well."

"I didn't know you knew so much!" Sigrun commended.

"That's because I listen, Sig," Jonna returned. "And pay attention. You should try it some time."

"Are you saying I don't listen?" Sigrun asked, pretending to be aghast.

"No, of course not," Jonna stated. "Just...try it more."

Sigrun smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. So what should we do in the mean-time?"

"Find the sword, like that dumb-ass old man said," Jonna answered.

"What, now you _want_ to do that?" Sigrun asked. "I thought you didn't like him."

"I don't," Jonna replied. "But right now, we need to stay as far away from Dawnstar as possible, which, unfortunately, means taking our time with Havi's plan."

"Alright," Sigrun nodded. "We can do that. Then what?"

"First things first, Sig," Jonna chuckled. "Let's get to Winterhold and find out about retrieving that sword. Then we'll see about where to go from there."

* * *

The two ladies made sure their things were all packed and secured, then hid all traces of their stay at the lighthouse before they set out down the cliffs and into the glacial valley. For the rest of that day they carried on southeastward, keeping the high cliffs on their right-hand. They continued walking, sometimes taking out their map with frigid fingers to see if they had made a wrong turn at any point: though they seemed to be following the proper course, it seemed that the mountains to their right were an impassable barrier, impossibly high with neither lane or path leading through them.

About midday, the mountains to their right suddenly split open in a narrow pass. In that moment, they stood frozen in awe, not necessarily because of the chill wind. They were amazed at how the mountains, which had but a moment ago seemed to be an impassable barrier, had opened up before them in this path. They reasoned that it was because of the narrowness of the pass that it seemed almost invisible from afar. With all haste they made their way into the pass. It was quite narrow and inclined upward steeply, and the cold wind bit at their backs; but they were now confident that they were going the right way.

By and by, the path leveled off and then descended yet again. The path was filled with dense, soft drifts of snow, which the two ladies slid or fell through with joy. At this point, the cold winds were blocked by the main girth of the mountains and the air was not as threatening as in the glacial valley. By the time the snowed path met the road to Winterhold, both Sigrun and Jonna were covered in snow and full of merriment, all thought of Thalmor or pursuit forgotten. In fact, were it not for the cold of the upper mountain regions, this would have been the best part of their adventure so far. But the cold was still there, and when they climbed out of the drifts, they found themselves shivering.

A little inn sat by the highway-side a short distance off from where the Wayward Pass met the road. The thought of a warm fire to melt away the snow was much to the desire of the two women. So it was that Sigrun and Jonna came to the Nightgate Inn. They noticed a wagon tied out front, but they paid it little heed: warmth was foremost in their minds. They passed into the inn, saying nothing as they made their way to the hearth to warm themselves. Having removed cloak and boots and were now taking a seat by the hearth, Sigrun took a moment to look about the common room. It seemed quite an empty place: there was one forlorn-looking bartender and a dark-haired man drinking from a pewter cup at one of the tables.

"Is that your cart outside?" Sigrun asked.

"Why do you want to know, snow-back?" the man retorted. His tone was not that of a Nord and he was clearly no mer or half-Orc.

"We're on our way to Winterhold," Sigrun replied. "If you'd like to hire our services as guards..."

"Two women?" scoffed the man. "Back in Cyrodiil, civilized women know better than to play with swords."

"You're an Imperial?" Jonna asked.

"A proud one at that!" the man returned. "And I don't do business with you damned Nords."

"Why is that?" Jonna replied, her fist clenching.

"Your kind are nothing but violent rabble," the man stated. "Even after the Empire killed that elf-killer Ulfric Stormcloak, your kind couldn't mind yourselves. The loss of the Reach and the east, the rebellion of the so-called 'Sons of Skyrim', the revolt in Bruma, the mysterious death of the earl of Whiterun: your people cannot mind yourselves."

"And you Imperials are better?" asked Jonna.

"We keep the peace in these parts," the man stated. "If it weren't for the Imperial Legion, the Dominion would have taken over this gods-forsaken country, the provinces would fall into chaos and anarchy, and the College of Winterhold would be raided and burned by you savages."

"You're going to the College?" Sigrun asked.

"Delivering much-needed supplies," the man retorted. "Or are you as dense as everyone else around here and actually believe the Winterhold mages can conjure food out of thin air?" The man scoffed.

"Why not take us on, then?" Sigrun asked. "As your body-guards. Our last customer made it to his destination alive and with his goods intact."

"If I were of a mind to hire body-guards," the man sneered. "I'd go after such as can handle themselves. I'm not spending my hard-earned drakes on two little girls with swords. And they wouldn't be Nords, either: such as rob you blind and threaten you if you as much as protest."

"Can't we at least go with you as passengers?" Sigrun asked. "It will take off some miles from our journey and we can pay you."

"I wouldn't trust you lot with my goods," the man retorted. "Besides, it'll give me some small measure of joy to know that you wet-nosed little girls will be benighted and delayed on your way to Winterhold. Perhaps then you'll grow enough sense and go home!"

"The hell is your problem?" Jonna interjected.

"I don't quite like being molested by you mongrel b*tches!" the man retorted. "Besides, the only thing in these parts an honest man needs protecting from is you lot. The Sisters of Strife don't come this far north, and the rumors of dark elf slavers is just that: same as the rumors about Falmer in their caves."

"I think we've heard enough," Sigrun muttered to Jonna. The younger woman made a rude gesture at the Imperial man, then gave him her back.

"Can you believe such a person has the misfortune to be in Skyrim?" Sigrun asked. Jonna smiled.

"Almost reminded me of Crixus from your Da's stories," Jonna added. "Hmm, maybe it is."

"Oh, come on," Sigrun chuckled. "It can't be."

"Why not?" Jonna asked.

"Well, for one thing," Sigrun began. "Crixus is the Emperor. You wouldn't find the Emperor in a tavern like this in the middle of nowhere, without guards or anything. Also, I remember my Da's stories better than you do, it seems. Crixus was bald, or close to it, and his face was full of scars. This man has short hair and looks as though he hasn't fought a day in his life."

"With a mouth like that, I'm not so sure if that last bit is true," Jonna replied.

"Even so," Sigrun said. "I don't think this man is the Emperor. An asshole, yes, but not the Emperor."

* * *

They stayed at the inn until their clothes had dried again. Once they were sufficiently dry, they made their way out of the tavern and back into the cold. As they readied themselves for their journey, Jonna nudged Sigrun on the shoulder and pressed her finger clandestinely against her lips in a gesture of silence.

"Let's sneak onboard that son of a b*tch's wagon," Jonna whispered.

"What?" Sigrun asked. "But that's trespassing! If he catches us, we'll be in the wrong!"

"So?" Jonna returned. "We have swords. If he tries to evict us, we can give him the fight of his life."

"I'm not so sure about this," Sigrun shook her head.

"Come on, Sig!" Jonna urged. "We can get a ride to Winterhold and get back at him for being an asshole. Now, quiet! Let's do it before he comes back."

Sigrun sighed, but followed Jonna over to the Imperial man's wagon. Carefully, so as to not startle the horse, they climbed into the back of the wagon. As was the case with every wagon in Skyrim that dared the eternally frigid climes of the northern holds, the wagon had a burlap or leather tarp that could be pulled over the top to protect the goods within from the elements. Once the two ladies were both inside, they covered themselves with said tarp and waited. They did not know how long it would be until the Imperial man returned from the inn and they might have to wait all of that time until he did.

Suddenly Sigrun started squirming where she lay.

"What are you doing?" Jonna asked.

"Covering our tracks," she replied. "Remember all that snow? He'll see our footprints and know we climbed inside his wagon."

Sigrun got herself turned around, so that her feet were aimed at the wagon's seat and her face was pointed out the end. She then scooted herself back until her upper body was half-way out of the wagon. Then she unfastened her cloak and held it out over the snow, dragging it across their footprints. There was a sound of raised voices coming from the inn, and Sigrun quickly pulled her cloak back into the wagon and shifted herself around and back inside, trying to make herself as scarce as possible.

The door of the inn opened and Sigrun and Jonna held their collective breaths. It was all they could do to hope either that they had succeeded in hiding their tracks, or that their unsuspecting host would not be very observant. A few heavy footsteps slid through the snow; the two women bit their lips and remained frozen in place. Even the slightest movement could alert the Imperial man to their presence. The wagon jostled gently, then there was a cry and a crack of a whip, then the whole wagon began to move to the clattering sound of iron-shod horse-hooves. They were now underway, hidden in the wagon of the Imperial man.

* * *

Hours passed. The gentle jostling and rumbling of the wagon wheels upon the snow-clad road threatened to rock the two women to sleep, lying in the back as they were. However, they were determined to remain awake through the whole ordeal. Every moment they feared the wagon would stop, the Imperial man would climb off the seat and remove the tarp. Surely then the jig would be up and they would rather be caught awake than asleep. Also there was no sure way of knowing when they would arrive in Winterhold if they fell asleep. So they fought off weariness and tried to keep themselves silent but wakeful: as it turned out, this was easier said than done. They had no idea of how much time was passing outside the wagon. When they left the inn, there had been a cover of clouds between them and the sun that cast a dull gray sheen upon the world: now beneath the tarp, the light neither faded nor grew. The dull gray and the coziness of their hiding place threatened to lull them into sleep. As if that were not enough, the women kept their ears pricked for any sound or change that might take place outside of the wagon: only this way could they know if the wagon was attacked, or if the Imperial man might bring them to a stop. But aside from the clanking of the wagon wheels, the clopping of the horse's hooves, and a gentle whistling of the wind, there was no other sound to be heard: but even the serenity was hypnotic.

By and by, the dull gray slowly grew a shade darker. Furthermore, there were now sounds outside that they had not been heard a few moments ago. Footsteps were heard, a hubbub of conversation, clanking of steel weapons within leather scabbards and the distant sound of singing and revelry. A voice, clearer and nearer than the others, was heard outside the wagon; then, to the horror of the two ladies, the wagon came to a gentle, lurching halt. Outside they could hear words being exchanged between the new voice and the Imperial man: it seemed to be a guard making an inquiry on the Imperial man's goods.

Jonna made a gesture and, immediately guessing her sister's thought, Sigrun crawled backwards out of the wagon. Jonna followed after her and, as quietly as possible, made her way out of the wagon. Jonna was smaller and able to squirm out without incident, but Sigrun seemed to make enough commotion to make Jonna fearful that they would be discovered. Ever and anon Jonna cast her eyes to the front of the wagon, fearing that the Imperial man would look back at a moment and see them. Sigrun gave a final push and collapsed onto the snow. Jonna gave her hand and pulled Sigrun to her feet, then shot back down to the ground. In her attempt at climbing out of the wagon, the Thalmor folio had fallen out of Sigrun's cloak. Jonna stowed the folio into her own belt and then led Sigrun behind a tall longhouse made of wood with a thatched roof.

"We made it!" Sigrun gasped.

"Just barely," Jonna returned. "You need to be more careful with that folio. If it's as important as you think it is, it's damn dangerous to let it slip out of your reach."

"Alright, alright," Sigrun nodded. "So, where do you think we are?"

Jonna pulled the map from her belt and examined it. "Hmm. Well, if that inn we stopped at is the Nightgate Inn and we haven't stopped anywhere else along the way, this should be Winterhold."

"Then which one of these buildings is the College?" Sigrun asked. "We might as well start planning our entrance before it gets too dark."

Just then, there was a soft 'ahem' heard nearby. Both ladies spun about and saw a figure in a gray cloak, shorter than Sigrun but not as short as Jonna.

"Pardon my eavesdropping, sirrahs," the figure said, in a drawling accent which they had never heard. "But I couldn't help but hear that you purposed to enter Winterhold."

"Who wants to know?" Jonna asked.

"A friend," the figure replied. "But let's get indoors first. We can speak more safely there."

The stranger turned towards a small wood-shed that stood behind the longhouse. He opened the door and gestured with his gloved hand that they should enter in first. Slowly they made their way inside, but Jonna clutched the hilt of her sword. Once they were inside, the stranger closed the door but did not lock it, then turned about and removed his hood. To their surprise, they saw the dull-gray, red-eyed and bony face of a Dunmer.

"You're a dark elf?" Jonna asked.

"Aye, sirrah," the elf replied. "And you shouldn't believe all those rumors coming out of New Gnisis. We ain't all bad, and I happen to be one of the good ones. Arvyn Hlas is my name. If you're in the market for getting into the College of Winterhold, I'm your elf."

"How?" Sigrun asked.

The elf chuckled. "You two aren't from around here, pretties. The College doesn't let just anyone inside. That was always the rule, but things have changed lately. Arch-Mage Nirya has banned all Nords from entering the College, even those skilled in magicka."

"Then how can we get in?" Sigrun asked.

"That's where I come in," Arvyn replied. "I am a purveyor of sorts. If the mages of the College need anything, I can get it for them, much faster than Drusus Andronicus. I know ways of getting into the College that evade even the scrying of the College mages."

"And you'll just help us get into the College?" Jonna asked. "Just like that? I assume you'd want some kind of payment?"

"Oh, no more than you can afford," Arvyn answered. "I consider it a great honor, repairing the broken bonds between Nords and my people."

"That's all very noble," Jonna suspiciously stated. "But why all the secrecy? If you're an honest man, or elf, I don't see why you wouldn't operate openly."

"The time for open action is not yet upon us," Arvyn began. "Kraldar, the Jarl of Winterhold, was a friend of the College long ago and did his best to repair the relations between the folk of Winterhold and the College mages. But that was long ago, and now he has fallen into dotage. Whether by reason of age, plague, or some mischief, no one truly knows. He can no nothing for the College or the people of Winterhold anymore: all courtly decisions are carried out by his steward, Elsa Raven-Lock. A pox upon that black-haired and black-hearted fetcher!" With that, Arvyn spat on the ground.

"She has an ill name here in Winterhold, and in places near-about," Arvyn continued. "She is quite friendly with the Imperials and enforces the Emperor's edicts, which do nothing but breed more hatred and mistrust. Of course, the Emperor has been quite friendly to the College, and so they don't oppose his will either. Therefore we must work in secret, doing what little we can do to restore friendship between our people."

"So what's the plan?" Sigrun asked.

"I have a few spare mage robes," Arvyn stated. "You will be able to pass unnoticed into the College with these. The harder part will be casting spells: the College has tests that those new students who wish to enter must perform, or else they're barred." He removed from his bosom two scrolls and gave these to the ladies.

"A simple warding spell," he said. "This should allay the curiosity of the Mages without taxing the unlearned too greatly. But once you're inside the College, getting what you want will be even harder. The doors are locked and will only open with a certain spell known only to the gatekeepers. They are passed out to the other mages to allow the students access to their lessons, but are changed every night at midnight. If you wish to enter, we must hurry. Night is now falling and it will take long to find what you seek, I wager."

"How do you know how to get past the magical locks," asked Jonna. "If they're always being changed?"

"As I said," Arvyn replied. "I know ways of getting into the College. I have friends among the gatekeepers, and they share with me the spells of opening. But they are only good until midnight, when the locking spells are changed. If you wish to enter the College, I would go at once before the night grows old."

Sigrun asked for a moment, then she and Jonna turned their backs to Arvyn and began whispering among themselves.

"What do you think?" Sigrun asked.

"I'm not sure about him," Jonna shook her head. "A strange elf just appears out of nowhere and wants to help us just like that?"

"Listen to his words, Jons!" Sigrun said. "He could be a great help to us in our plans. People of means who want to change the way things are would be very useful. And he certainly seems nicer than old Havi."

Jonna sighed. "If you say so, then we'll do this. But I'm not entirely trusting of this elf. What cause does he have to just help us like this? I'd ask him specifically what he wants to charge us for his help."

They turned about and Sigrun spoke: "What would we be expected to pay for your services?"

"No more than you can afford," repeated Arvyn.

"We don't have much money," Sigrun said. "And we're on the road. Money is tight, so we need to know at the onset how much we'll be needing to part with for your help."

"There's no time!" Arvyn snapped, annoyance in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Apologies, my pretty ladies. We are in haste, and for that I spoke impatiently. But we have no time for dallying indeed. The longer you wait, the less time you will have to find what you seek in the College. If you're caught inside the College after midnight, the locks will be changed and you won't be able to escape. And I can't come to your rescue then, seeing as how there are wards that prevent teleportation in and out of the College."

"If you're friends with the gatekeepers," Jonna asked. "Can't you simply get the locking spells to help us out if we get locked in?"

"Not that early," Arvyn stated. "If the gatekeepers see me coming to them at midnight, asking for the newly-changed locking spells, they will be suspicious: and if they pry too deeply, my cover will be blown and I'll be banned from the College."

"Why would you be banned if you're doing good?" Jonna asked.

"It doesn't matter," Arvyn retorted. "Time is short. Are you with me or are not?"

Sigrun looked at Jonna, who gently shook her head. But Sigrun sighed and turned back to Arvyn.

"Alright," she said. "We'll trust you."

"Excellent!" Arvyn smiled. "I knew you were different than the common rabble that makes trouble for the College mages. Now, hurry, get these robes on and stow the spells somewhere safe." He then produced a small sheet of paper with markings upon it and handed it to Sigrun. "This shows the locking spells for each of the doors in the College. Like the scrolls, they can be used by those unfamiliar with magicka."

The darkness was growing deeper when Sigrun and Jonna emerged from the wood-shed. They were both clad in orange robes and, to all eyes, seemed to be no more than two College mages out late. They hurried on their way, their heads kept down to hide their fair skin: their hair was tied back and hidden beneath their hoods, and only looking up might give away that they were Nords. Only for a brief moment they would lift their heads to get their bearings, and then shift their gaze back downwards again.

It did not take long for them to reach the entrance of the College. An old Breton was standing at the gate, and they knew that he would be asking for them to cast their spells. The phrase that had been written in the scrolls of warding they had been given was a brief one, and they each, one after the other, repeated the phrase and marveled at the bright, shield-shaped flash of light that erupted before them. The Breton stepped aside and allowed them to enter.

They made their way up the narrow causeway that led up to the College's gates. It was old and broken, with no rail upon either side; what's more, their heads cast down, they could not help but see that this causeway hung dangerously over a great chasm that fell into the writhing sea below. What made this worse was that the night was growing deeper and they could scarcely see where the causeway ended and the chasm began. Slowly they made their way forward, until at last the causeway widened into a stony platform. The two women sighed in relief as they reached the end of the causeway.

"We made it!" Sigrun breathed.

"For the moment," Jonna returned. "But where do you think the sword could be?"

"No idea," Sigrun shook her head.

"So why don't we split up?" Jonna suggested. "We can cover twice as many rooms and faster."

"But we have only one copy of the locking spells," Sigrun stated.

"Grr!" Jonna growled. "Damn that Arvyn Hlas!"

"Let's get moving, then," Sigrun added, lowering her voice as she saw the silhouette of several other mages walking through the wide courtyard of the College. "We need to find the sword before it gets too late."

* * *

The two women moved through the courtyard quietly and inconspicuously. Ever and anon they would find a door, wait at it for a while until they were certain that there was no one watching them, then whispered the opening words to the gate. A soft click was heard as the door unlocked before them and they passed in swiftly. Most of the rooms were empty, for there were no lessons for that day. The women went about searching the rooms they found, hoping to find the sword with no idea as to what it looked like or where it may be hidden. The lateness of the hour gave them some space to look about the rooms without interruption, but for the moment they found nothing.

Door by door and room by room they went, searching everywhere they thought a sword might be kept. Sigrun made sure to remind Jonna not to leave a mess behind them; no one must know that they were about and searching the rooms of the College. This made their search even slower, but Sigrun insisted that it was necessary. Each room they searched proved a dead end. Worse still, some rooms had other doors leading to other places. In the dim glow of balls of mage-light spells hovering in niches and upon pedestals throughout the corridors, the two women checked and double-checked their key. They ruled out the dormitories, since it seemed foolish to hide an enchanted sword in a place where anyone could find it.

In one of these doors, marked by the mysterious phrase 'Midden' on their key, they found a winding staircase descending below the College. There was an eerie glow at the very bottom of the stairs, and a chill wind from below sent the hairs on their arms and the back of their necks standing on end. The ladies wondered just how far this winding stair led, if there was an end at all, and what horrors lay at the bottom. They quickly turned around and went back up the stairs: the fear of wandering in these seemingly haunted halls, perhaps finding nothing, only to be locked out once they reached the top again, was too great. If they were wrong and the sword were there, Sigrun reasoned that they would go back to find Arvyn the next day for the new password and try again in daylight.

After they had passed briefly into the door of the Midden, the women made their way back up into the main regions of the College. Suddenly they came to a halt: before them stood a mage with his hood removed, an old Breton man with a suspicious look in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "The Midden is off limits for students."

"We were looking for the Arch-Mage," Sigrun hastily said.

"Well, she isn't here," the old mage replied. "She's at her quarters, where she's always at at this time of night."

"Could you tell us where that is?" Sigrun asked.

"Oh, new blood, eh?" the old mage returned. "Up at the tower she'll be found. But it's no use: the door is locked and only she knows the password. And she's not there either, busy with business of her own. Now off to bed to you both!"

The old mage let them pass back up the stairs, and the young women went on their way, almost as though they would do as they had been instructed. But once he was gone, Sigrun examined their key: the Arch-Mage's quarters was listed upon the locking spells listed there. Once they were sure they were alone, they made their way towards the shadow of the tall tower. Even in the darkness they could see it, glistening from the lights in the windows thereof and visible even at night. Quickly they made their way thither, pausing only if they thought they heard footsteps in the courtyard. Once they reached the door, Sigrun whispered the password: the door opened.

Both of them were shivering with excitement and fear as they quietly made their way up the steps. Any moment they could be caught, and then the jig would be up. There would be no explaining their business in the Arch-Mage's personal quarters at this time of night. At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a roomy study with a small bed and chest at the far end. Immediately they went about searching the place, trying carefully to put back anything they moved into its proper place once they had thoroughly searched. Suddenly Jonna hissed under breath:

"Over here! I found it!"

Sigrun quickly crossed the room to the bed, where Jonna was holding a sword bound in a leather sheath. The blade slightly curved, and the hilt and pommel were black: upon the end of the pommel there was engraved in runes the name 'Havi.'

"Excellent!" Sigrun returned.

"Now, let's get out of here, Sig!" Jonna replied.

They hurried back down the stairs, Jonna securing the sword to her own belt and hiding it beneath her robes. At the bottom of the stairs, they passed out into the courtyard, walking slowly with heads bowed so as to not draw attention.

"Once we're out of here," Sigrun whispered. "You go on ahead. I'll find Arvyn and settle the matter of our payment."

"I think we should leave together," Jonna protested.

"No," Sigrun replied. "No. Once they realize it's gone, they'll start searching for us. We'll be easier to spot together than on our own."

"Are you sure about this?" Jonna asked, still unconvinced.

"Jons, you know I can outrun you," Sigrun stated. "Once I've settled our debt, I'll catch up to you. We won't be apart for long."

"Where will we meet?" Jonna asked.

"The Nightgate Inn," Sigrun replied.

"But it's dark and it's late!" Jonna returned. "And it's cold!"

"We left Dawnstar and reached the lighthouse alright," Sigrun stated. "And that was dark, late, and cold just as well. I'd rather not be anywhere near Winterhold once they start asking around for us."

Jonna sighed. "I know you know what you're talking about, so I'll trust you."

"Do you have the sword?" Sigrun asked. Jonna gently patted the hilt at her thigh, hidden beneath her robes. "Go on ahead. I'll be right behind you."

Once they reached the outer gate of the College, Jonna made her way across the causeway and vanished into the darkness. There was only the howling of the wind off the sea. Sigrun sat at the gate, looking this way and that, making sure they were not spotted. She had done her best to meticulously cover their tracks, and had sent the sword ahead of her in case they were captured. The rest was in the hands of the Nine Divines.

As the minutes after their departure ticked off, Sigrun then set out across the causeway. It was much scarier crossing in darkness, and she moved very slowly; sometimes almost bent over, groping with her hands like a blind beggar, searching for the edges. As she lifted up her eyes periodically, she could see the torches in the hands of the hold guards as they made their patrols: Winterhold must have been too remote for the Imperial Legion to bother sending troops to the hold. Once the tiny, bobbing orbs of light that were their torches and lanterns began to recede, she continued on her way across the causeway.

The old mage at the entrance of the causeway was not there when she arrived at the end. This was to her liking: there would be awkward questions asked and it would make finding them easier if she encountered anyone on her way out of the College. Now that she was back on solid ground, Sigrun rose to her feet and made her way towards the road. This was easier to find in the darkness, for the snow around the cobblestone road was shifted, moved and beaten by the footsteps of those who had walked upon it that day. Sigrun hurried down the road, trying to be careful not to make too much noise and alert the guards. All that she could remember of the layout of the town she tried to recall to her mind: she did remember that the entrance of the longhouse had torches outside, which she could see burning in the darkness. After that, she guessed that the wood-shed wouldn't be much harder to find.

As she came to the longhouse, she set herself as close to the wall as possible, following it until the very end. There she turned the corner and began walking into the snow on her way to the wood-shed. Twice she called for Arvyn, but no answer came. At last she found the wood-shed: upon trying the door she found that it was still unlocked. Passing inside, she found that all was dark. She called Arvyn's name. Then suddenly a strong blow struck her upon the back of her head and her whole world sank into darkness.

* * *

 **(AN: At last we got a chapter completed! A decent length, and lots of stuff happening. If you were wondering at the uncannily good fortune of Sigrun and Jonna so far, and in this chapter, then you will be pleased to know that is about to change.)**


	8. Separated

**(AN: As I was working on the last few chapters, i made some decisions about the sisterhood between Sigrun and Jonna. So I decided then that this had to happen, where we saw how they would react without the other. So now we see just how strong, or vulnerable, they are on their own.)**

 **(Also, i wouldn't just start "counting chickens" before they've come home to roost. Someone who seems a friend might turn out to be an enemy, and an enemy might just be more helpful than you may think.)**

* * *

 **Separated**

The dusk of night deepened as Jonna continued walking down the road. The snow fell as thick as rain, and soon there were thick drifts covering the path. Jonna's feet were heavy as lead and she had long lost any sense of feeling in her nose and fingers. Though she was a Nord and more at home in the cold than an Argonian or an Imperial, she was unfamiliar with the harsh, ever-cold climate of Winterhold. Jonna wished all the more that she had managed to convince Sigrun to come with her. As strong as she was, Jonna knew that she could face any hardship or danger with the one as dear to her as a sister at her side. No one knew her better, no one else knew how she fought and could fight in concert with her: therefore there was no one Jonna would rather have at her back than Sigrun.

But she had not prevailed, and hoping for otherwise was useless in the cold. There was nothing for it but to push on ahead. She had to reach the Nightgate Inn, someway and somehow. Each step, however, grew more and more difficult than the last. Now she was almost doubled over, barely keeping herself on her feet. The night was deep, for clouds covered the moons and there were no stars in sight. She could scarcely see anything before her, and had to periodically stray off the path to the right, with one hand held out, to feel for the cliff wall. It was the only way she could keep to her path in this darkness.

There was a howl afar off in the mountains that set Jonna's nerves alight. Every last ounce of strength was roused to the defense of her person. Despite the anger, her first act was to seize the enchanted sword and draw it from its sheath. Her numb hands fumbled ineffectually against her thigh, unable to draw steel. Her knees protested against the cold and were starting to buckle. She feared that the cold would claim her before whatever waited for her in the darkness. She had hoped for a swift death in battle, but the idea of being immobilized by cold and mauled was not particularly inviting. Therefore she shouted at the wind, eager to let her enemy know that she wouldn't go down quietly.

"Here I am!" she shouted. "Come and take me!"

There was no answer. She spoke a similar challenge again, but received the same answer. Looking this way and that, she saw a small globe of light bobbing just above the ground. Jonna's eyes, starved for light in the darkness, could not make out who or what was holding the light; what she could discern was that it was not the light of a torch, but reminded her of the magical light-spheres she and Sigrun had seen in the College. Her heart sank as she feared the worst: Sigrun had been captured and now the mages were on their way to catch her.

"Stay a while, Jonna!" a voice called out from the darkness. It was the voice of an old man; though the bearer of the voice knew her, Jonna could not recall ever meeting any man older than Eirik or Sori. The accent, however, was not strange.

"Who are you?" Jonna asked. "What do you want?"

The figure did not speak, but the light grew nearer and nearer. It grew slightly, shedding some illumination on a figure clad in a robe as black as night, with a staff in one hand and a ball of mage-light in the other.

"You've been following us, haven't you?" Jonna spoke. "What in Oblivion do you want?"

"You must reach the Nightgate Inn, Jonna," the old man said.

"How do you know my name?" asked Jonna.

"I know many things, Jonna," the old man replied. "For your part, you must survive to reach the Nightgate Inn. If you go this way alone, you will surely die."

"I don't need anyone's help," Jonna sighed.

"I have seen how events carried out," the old man stated. "You will freeze to death in this cold dark. Accept my aid and you will be safe for the moment."

"What help can you give?" Jonna asked.

"I have spent many years," the old man said. "Traversing the realms of Oblivion, learning many things: things known to mortal men, things forgotten, and some things that should never have been. My magic will allow you to travel to the Nightgate Inn."

"Is that so?" Jonna returned. "Well, I don't trust you. A strange man appears out of nowhere and offers help of the magical kind? What price do you want for your services?"

The old man hesitated at four yards away from Jonna. "I have paid a great price already for this knowledge, and a greater price will yet be paid. Now I must make amends for the price I paid, by helping you and Sigrun as I can."

"If you're truly helpful, and know so much," Jonna said, fighting off the shivering cold. "Then maybe you can give me something first, hmm? A pledge of good faith; you trust me with some of that knowledge you know, and I might trust you and your magic."

"This is ridiculous!" the old man protested. "You will surely freeze to death if we don't go now!"

"No!" Jonna retorted. "Give me a reason to trust you first, then we'll see."

The old man sighed. "Very well. What is it you wish to know?"

"The wolves at the standing stones," Jonna began. "Did you send them after us?"

"I chased them away," the old man said.

"Why are you following us?" Jonna asked again.

"To help as I am able," came the reply.

"'As you are able?'" asked Jonna. "But if you're a sorcerer, why can't you just help us all the time and openly?"

The old man sighed. "I am not bound to Mundus any longer, and my time here is short. I can stay in this plane for only a short while before I must leave. If I remain overlong, I will die: and I cannot die until I have made amends in full."

"Hmm," Jonna murmured: the cold or her inexperience with magicka left the old man's response a little over her head. "Okay, you s-said you know many things. Does that mean you know the future?"

"I know many possible futures," the old man said. "But they change with each action taken at this moment and every one to follow."

"Can you tell me what will happen at the end of my journey?" Jonna asked.

The old man shook his head. "You are not ready to know what the future holds for you. Only after you have seen and heard many things more will you know the fullness of your fate."

"I don't think you're in any position to tell _me_ when I'm ready to know my future or not!" Jonna retorted. "It is _my_ future, after all!"

"The answer to your question will cause you and your sister much grief," the old man cryptically said.

"How could that possibly cause grief?" Jonna asked. "I just want what Sigrun had her whole life. Is that such a terrible thing?"

"More than you know," said the old man.

"Why?" she retorted. "What do you know about my father?"

"I cannot tell you," the old man repeated. "You are not ready."

" _I_ say when I'm ready or not!" Jonna retorted. "Not you! Now if you're really pressed for time, tell me who he is right now! No games, no tricks, and no riddles. Or I won't accept your help, and then we'll both die out here in the cold."

"This is most unwise!" the old man replied.

"I want the truth," Jonna stated. "And I'm not taking no for an answer. Now who is my father?"

The old man sighed. "Much grief will follow if I give you this secret out of time. Sigrun's life will fall into the hands of chance..."

"Answer the question, dammit!" Jonna retorted.

"Very well!" the old man grumbled angrily. "I will answer if this final warning does not dissuade you: that knowledge is dangerous, and more people than you know will be endangered for their lives by the giving of this secret out of time."

"I'm willing to accept the risk," Jonna selfishly stated. "Now who is my father?"

Again the old man heaved a weary, sorrowful sigh. "Your father is Idolaf Battle-Born, the fool of Jarl Nelkir, purchased from the court of Count Edvald of Bruma by his father Olfrid Battle-Born."

"Th-That's in Whiterun!" Jonna exclaimed. "Gods! We were just there a few days ago! How could I have missed him! A-Alright, fine, take me to Nightgate Inn."

The old man held up his staff and suddenly Jonna felt sleep wash over her. With a start, she awoke again moments later: only this time, she was not lying in the snow, but in a warm bed in the candle-lit room of an inn. For a moment she thought that she had dreamed everything from leaving Dawnstar. Then she noticed that she was still clad in her traveling clothes, still fresh with snow, and the enchanted sword was fastened to her belt. The old man was nowhere to be found.

Jonna did not go to sleep. Instead, she found herself unusually wakeful than she normally would be at night. Her mind went back to the old man, and she found that, despite having her questions answered, more were now springing up in their wake. The old man hadn't told her who he was, or much else about him. It bothered her that he had expected her to trust him: though he apparently knew her, he was a total stranger to her.

It reminded her painfully of her mother. Though growing up in Eirik's household Jonna had a relatively good life, there were some things that plainly separated her from Sigrun and Bjorn. For one thing, it could not be hidden that they had both a mother and a father, whereas she only had her mother. Jordis had never told Jonna who her father was, and refused to even entertain the subject for any amount of time. As a child, she often wondered what kind of man her father had been: maybe he had died in the Civil War, fighting against the Empire, or maybe he had been a brave, adventurous warrior like Eirik. As she grew older, her thoughts began to change: perhaps there had been a falling out between him and her mother, and they had separated on account of that. These thoughts plagued her more and more with each passing year, and it had come to a point where Jonna was no longer placated by her mother's refusal to answer her questions. Now the refusal was both an annoyance and a point of tension between them. Therefore she had resolved to learn the truth for herself.

As to the name the old man had given, it sounded familiar. She had recalled that name being mentioned in the Bannered Mare in Whiterun, but hadn't given it much thought at the time: there had been the issue of the little brawl that had erupted. Now she wanted to go back and learn all that she could: had she spoken to him at some point and never knew him?

But she would not go alone, not without Sigrun. There was no one in all of Skyrim that she trusted more than Sigrun. It was not merely a matter of sharing secrets with each other, but of a true and profound kind of trust. Even though Sigrun seemed at times a little overwhelmed by their journey, Jonna knew that she had her back. She could throw herself into the thick of battle, knowing that she had someone who would be at her side with a sword in hand to defend her.

Therefore she decided that she would wait until Sigrun arrived at the inn. She feared that she might also be wandering alone in the snow, but then recalled that she had remained with Arvyn. She was still unsure about him, as she was about everyone; but if he was as true as he claimed to be, she hoped that he would help Sigrun arrive at Nightgate Inn in short order. Perhaps if he did, she would think better of him.

* * *

The night passed slowly and sleeplessly for Jonna. Half-expecting to hear Sigrun knocking at the door of her room, she remained awake all through the night. The morning came, but Sigrun was nowhere to be found. At dawn, Jonna dragged herself into the common room of the inn, where she had a few words with the innkeeper. He had been there all that evening and told her that she had arrived with an old man in a dark, snow-covered cloak and hood. He hadn't seen a face, but the old man had paid for her room and provided a bit of money for board, with the promise to return if anything was over-spent.

As she ate breakfast in silence, Jonna wondered more about the old man. Who could it be? Though Jordis had been tight-lipped on the matter of Jonna's parentage, she told of her own family to her daughter's heart's desire. Both of Jordis' parents had died before she had reached the age of fifteen, and the rest of her training had been in the Blue Palace as a huscarl. Both Eirik and Mjoll's parents were dead and buried: Eirik's father, after whom Bjorn had been named, had succumbed to illness and the wounds he received after fighting in the Great War, and Mjoll's father had died of age before she left on her adventures.

Perhaps it was someone on her father's side, someone she had yet to meet. She would have many questions once she returned to Whiterun.

The morning began to dawn, and one by one, people began to appear at the Nightgate Inn. Some were traveling to Winterhold, others leaving from the same. Jonna relocated herself to a place where she could see the people as they walked into the tavern. With each creaking of the door, she turned her gaze to the door, expecting to see a snow-covered Sigrun slogging through the door; exhausted and freezing, but otherwise alive and well. But each time the door opened, Sigrun was not there.

In the meantime, Jonna decided that she would pay attention to anything the visitors might say while they were present. So far the news from Winterhold was reassuring: no news of a robbery from the College had been heard, and Jonna took this as a sign that Sigrun hadn't been discovered. But there was scarce other news from Winterhold; the years hadn't been kind to it, which had been little more than a ghost town for almost forty years.

As for news from the south and west, Jonna paid little attention to this, for it did not concern her greatly. But what little she did hear was troubling. In the Reach, the tombs of the ancient Nords had all been plundered and the bones exhumed and burned, so that even the memory of Nords living in those parts was to be erased. South, Bravil and Leyawiin were all but lost: the Count of Bravil, a fat man by the name of Ciprius Cantillius, had died thirteen years ago without an heir, and the Caros of Leyawiin were in exile after a Khajiit riot had left the city in ruins. The eyes of the Emperor, however, seemed to be turned to the east rather than the west. Despite the mistrust between the Empire and the Houses of Morrowind since the Red Year, Emperor Crixus was doing his best to restore friendly relations with the Great Houses: and there were rumors of an Imperial expedition to Black Marsh.

About noon, the inn saw the most activity of that morning. A messenger from Jarl Kraldar on their way to Dawnstar, a group of mage-students on their way to Winterhold from High Rock, and an Orc sellsword: an actual Orc and not a half-Orc. Jonna was amazed at the largeness of the Orc, who seemed to dwarf even Eirik in height and strength of body. Upon his back was a large axe whose staff was as long as Jonna was tall. The Orc seemed to be a bit learned and chatted endlessly with several others at his table. He seemed to be rather amiable and would willingly talk with anyone who offered him a drink.

Though she was not very trusting, Jonna hoped that she might get some news out of this Orc. She left her table and joined that of the Orc and his sellsword companions. She offered him a drink and at that was allowed to join them. As the ale began to flow, she wheedled the Orc with questions, eager to know just how much he knew. From what she gathered, he had been in the eastern holds since before the Civil War. The Orc hold of Narzulbur had been his home until he was driven out; his brothers had not wanted his competition when they challenged their father for hegemony of the stronghold. Aside from that, he had traveled much and fought in many battles as a mercenary; always going where the money was greatest.

"Have you been in Winterhold often?" she asked.

"Not much to tell," the Orc replied. "Unless you're part of the College."

"I have a friend who was there just yesterday," Jonna stated. "Was expecting her return today, but she hasn't appeared yet."

At this, the Orc seemed to pay further attention to Jonna's story. "And who is your friend? A woman like you?"

"I don't know exactly what you mean by that," Jonna returned. "But yes, she is a young woman, like me, if that's what you mean."

The Orc grumbled. "It's not safe for young women, being alone in the eastern holds of Skyrim."

"Why is that?" Jonna asked. "I mean, I know it's not safe to be alone anywhere, but why here in particular?"

"Too close to Eastmarch," the Orc replied. "There are slavers roaming the borders of that hold. They capture unwary travelers and carry them away to Windhelm, which they have called New Gnisis."

"Slavers?" asked Jonna. "Isn't slavery outlawed in the Empire?"

At this, the Orc laughed grimly. "The Dunmer have never regarded Imperial law, even when they were part of the Empire. After the Red Year, those Dunmer who were within the Empire continued to live according to their own traditions. Even before that, the Dunmer's god incarnate, the fabled Nerevarine, did nothing but stoke the flames of hatred for the Empire, and their allies, the Great House Hlaalu."

"And the Empire has done nothing about this?" Jonna asked, though she guessed that she knew the answer without asking.

"Morrowind is a source of great wealth to the Empire," the Orc stated. "Neither Emperor nor Elder Council would dare risk losing the favor of the Great Houses."

"Well, my friend wasn't alone," Jonna said, shifting the conversation back to her initial concern.

"Who was she with?" the Orc asked.

"What is it to you?" Jonna retorted.

"There are some in Winterhold," said the Orc. "Who cannot be trusted. The steward, Elsa Raven-Lock, is one. Arch-Mage Nirya is another. Whether she is in league with the Thalmor or merely regards all non-Altmer unworthy of learning magicka, or serving the Emperor's hatred for Nords, no one truly knows. Master Hlas is another: openly a servant of the College, a liaison to the people of Winterhold, but he has an ill-name in Riften."

"Wait a minute, Hlas?" Jonna asked. "As in Arvyn Hlas? What do they say about him?"

"Many things," the Orc said. "The nicer things they have said is that he is a shill for the Thieves Guild, connecting their criminal empire like a single thread in a great web stretching across the entire Empire. But there are things not so nice that people say about him: they say he is a kidnapper, gaining the trust of strangers, then abducting them to sell them into slavery in the east."

"What!" Jonna exclaimed. She had a feeling in the depth of her stomach that Arvyn Hlas was more than he put on, but this was even worse. "But he said..."

"Oh, so it _was_ he who your friend was with?" the Orc knowingly replied. "In which case, I fear you will never see your friend again."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Jonna retorted, fear turning swiftly into anger.

"It means," the Orc replied, unperturbed by Jonna's outburst of rage. "That if your friend truly was in his company, it is likely that she has been sold as a slave. If that's the case, you will never see her again. Those unlucky ones to be enslaved by the Dunmer of Eastmarch are never seen or heard from again."

"We're going after him," Jonna stated.

"'We?'" the Orc asked.

"I have money," Jonna returned. "I'll pay you what you want. But we have to find her!"

"And where do you suppose we begin?" the Orc asked. "Winterhold? He will not return there, not for many days, after 'doing his business' there."

"You know something about him," Jonna returned. "Perhaps you can put all that knowledge to good use and we can find him together."

"I only know the rumors I have heard," the Orc replied. "And that is not even half of what there is to know about him."

"Still, we _are_ going to find my friend," Jonna insisted. "If I have to search every nook and cranny from here to the Velothi Mountains in the east, and battle fucking Vivec himself."

* * *

The Orc and Jonna then fell to haggling over his price. The Orc, whose name was Garbag gro-Luhg, gave a fair but steep price. Jonna deposited a few gold septims, unsure if this was sufficient. Garbag agreed to the price, but not to Jonna's desire to leave immediately. He was hungry from a long journey and had a mind to finish eating before going to battle. So Jonna was once again obliged to wait impatiently for her bodyguard to finish eating. She was too frustrated and eager to be on her way to talk with him in the meanwhile, and waited quietly until he was done.

Once the Orc had finished eating, Jonna went back to her room, took her things, and joined him as they left the Nightgate Inn. As they left the inn, the Orc unhitched from the post outside a large black horse, which he compelled Jonna to mount. Once they were both a-horse, Garbag urged the horse southwards, down a path that led down from the shelf upon which the inn was built, and into a wide forested plain covered in snow.

"I thought we'd be going back to Winterhold," Jonna stated.

"As I said before," Garbag stated. "Master Hlas would not return to Winterhold after capturing his prize. He would go east, towards New Gnisis, or south towards the slave camps along the Black River. If we went back towards Winterhold and searched every inch of that mountainous land, you will surely never see your friend again."

"Why?" asked Jonna.

"That land is rugged and perilous," Garbag replied. "One could spend a year searching all of that land and never find what they sought. Whether Master Hlas seeks to go to New Gnisis or farther south, our best choice will be to go steadily southeast from here. There is a bridge just northeast of the abandoned fort of Morvunskar; there we will be able to see if they go east or south."

"What if they go another way?" Jonna asked.

Garbag scoffed. "You haven't been this far east, have you?" She shook her head. "There are only two ways to reach New Gnisis from Winterhold: the road or by the coast. The coastal path is open to the cold winds from the sea; mer do not go there, and even Orcs never built settlements in that icy bay. The road, therefore, is the path they will take."

"But they're slavers," Jonna returned. "Won't they try to leave the road, in case someone tries to follow them?"

The Orc laughed. "Who would follow them but us? Eastmarch has become quite dangerous to all folk who are not Dunmer since the end of the Civil War. That was many years ago, and the Dunmer in New Gnisis think themselves quite secure. They own all the roads going in and out of Eastmarch; they will not think twice about taking the roads, since they feel safe going to and fro upon them."

For a long while they continued going through the snow-clad woods in silence. On their left they could see, through the trees, the gray outline of a wide lake, partially covered in ice. To their right the hills rose up into mighty, snowy tops, obscuring all view of things to the south. Directly ahead and over the tops of the trees continued the line of hills, running roughly straight eastward, but little could be seen any farther. In the sky to the east wisps of gray smoke floated into the sky, ominous and threatening.

"What is that smoke?" Jonna asked.

"The smoke of Eastmarch," the Orc replied. "Ever since the hold came under the power of House Sadras, there has been a great work therein. Whole forests are cut down and burned, lakes, rivers and ponds drained and dredged, beasts and birds hunted and left out to die. It is their purpose, some believe, to remake Eastmarch in the image of Vvardenfell as they remember it."

"Does Arvyn Hlas work for House Sadras?" Jonna asked.

"Arvyn is a liar," Garbag stated. "He will say anything to anyone to get what he wants. What he truly believes, no one knows. He does not keep company with anyone outside of Eastmarch, and if he is ever seen in company, they will always defend whatever new story he has lately invented. House Sadras, on the other hand, is the most aggressive of the Great Houses. They would claim ownership of any land where Dunmer are, whether the Dunmer owned that land or not. No, I do not believe he is a retainer of House Sadras. At the very least, he would serve them if it would be profitable to him, but no further."

"What else do you know about the Great Houses?" Jonna asked.

"Only what most others know," Garbag replied. "But of House Sadras, only a little. As a rule, they are secretive towards outsiders; but I have seen what they have done. The five Great Houses are these: Redoran, Indoril, Telvanni, Dres and Sadras. Redoran's primary business is in preserving the traditions of the Dunmer people. Indoril is the house of the New Tribunal, though they have lost some support since the Red Year. Telvanni is the house of mages, and, like the mages of Winterhold, have little regard for anyone or thing outside of their own business. Dres is the slave-house, and while they were greatly weakened when the Argonians invaded Morrowind, their former strength has grown in the many years since then."

"And Sadras?" asked Jonna.

"For many years," Garbag said. "No one knew of what Sadras' true intentions were. Most simply believed that they were an obscure house, elevated when House Hlaalu was disgraced after the Oblivion Crisis and the Red Year. In fact, they had made such little impact in Tamriel in the past two hundred years that many discounted them altogether. But now we see that it is different."

"How so?" Jonna asked.

"The annexation of Cheydinhal in Cyrodiil," Garbag stated. "And Eastmarch in Skyrim. These are not isolated incidents. Athal Sarys, the author of 'Dunmer of Skyrim', was a retainer of House Sadras. That book of his was a call to arms, one that few regarded. The learned were more often than not Imperial sympathizers, and ignored his writings. Those that might have done something about them were not learned, and wholly disregarded as ignorant savages or rebels."

"You seem to be quite learned," Jonna stated.

Garbag grumbled. "I taught myself to read. In my travels, I became distinctly aware that things were being hidden from me. So I endeavored to learn what they meant, that I might not be deceived by flattering words. Orcs are honorable folk, but those we may have dealings with can be duplicitous. I reasoned that if I learned how to read and write, I could never be deceived."

Jonna let out a barely audible grunt, then cast her eyes around them for any sign of Sigrun. She didn't expect to see her immediately, but she was still uneasy. The news that she may have been kidnapped and quite possibly sold into slavery was almost as bad as though she had been slain.

* * *

The day wore on, growing still colder and darker. It seemed also that the farther east they went, the darker the sky grew before them. Down from the high mountains to the north clouds that heralded the coming of a great blizzard could be seen billowing down into the valley, while before them the line of smoke became thicker and darker. A rumbling of thunder was heard in the mountains, and Garbag brought the horse towards the edge of the hills.

"What's wrong?" Jonna asked.

"See those clouds?" Garbag said. "There will be a storm soon. It will not do us any good to travel in the dark and rain. We may lose our course in the darkness."

Jonna grumbled. "I do not fear the darkness."

"The rain will hinder our progress," Garbag returned. "We will travel much faster with rest."

Reluctantly, Jonna agreed to the rest. Worse yet, there was no better resting place than under the trees around them. Beneath the bole of two trees growing close together Garbag brought the horse to a stop. The Orc then proceeded to tear off four leafy branches from off the trees and then throw them to the ground. Jonna knelt down beside them to start a fire, but Garbag forbade her. Then kneeling down at the base of the trees, the Orc began to clear away the snow around the trees with his huge arms. Rather than simply throw the excess snow away, he made a small wall of packed snow out of it. Into this he fit the bottom end of the branches, then slowly built up more snow around them until a small domed wall had been built.

"What's that for?" Jonna asked.

"To keep out the wind," Garbag replied. "Most of the coldest winds will be coming down from Mount Anthor and the heights of Winterhold. We should be safe from them, and anyone chancing to look this way from the road will only see snow."

"What about the horse?" Jonna inquired.

"He'll be fine," said the Orc. "He's been through worse weather than this. Also, if he's cold, I can throw a blanket over him, or he can kneel down and be protected in our little shelter."

Once the little shelter was built, Garbag removed a horse blanket from the saddle and covered the horse with it. Then he himself curled down beneath the tree and inside the shelter, wrapping up in his cloak. Jonna did likewise, though she insisted that Garbag turn around and that they sleep back to back. He was a mercenary, and Jonna did not trust anyone larger than herself being so close to her, be they Nord or Orc.

Around them the night deepened, until the shadows enveloped the forest and darkness was all they could see. About midnight an icy, biting rain began to fall upon the earth. Ever and anon there would be a brief flash of lightning and a distant roar of thunder: sometimes towards the mountains, and other times towards the east: never close enough to threaten striking their little shelter. Jonna, however, found that sleep had abandoned her throughout the night in calm as well as during the storm. She lay awake all night, sometimes lying as still as possible and sometimes squirming uncomfortably, trying to find a spot that would bring sleep upon her sooner.

"Go to sleep," grumbled Garbag. He hadn't gotten much sleep either from Jonna's constant shifting.

"I can't," she replied. "I keep thinking about Sigrun, in chains or worse, out there in this rain."

"Is she really that important to you?" Garbag grumbled. "Sounds like a lover more than a friend."

"What? Ew!" Jonna retorted. "We were like sisters, okay?" She sighed, her frustration at the Orc's comment dying down as she thought about long, emerald summers on the shores of Lake Ilinalta in Falkreath. "To tell you the truth, it was I who convinced her to leave home with me on this little adventure. I don't know why; I knew she wasn't as ready to leave home as I am. I guess because we always did everything together, it didn't feel right going off without her, somehow. Still doesn't feel right, being away from her. Like fighting without your weapon, you know?"

The Orc grumbled. "I know you're not paying me for advice, but, from an experienced traveler and one who has fought and survived many battles, such attachment is a weakness. One that you cannot afford to have, for your enemies will exploit it. Only a self-sufficient man, or Orc, can truly survive in this world. Now get some sleep, or you'll have no strength for the journey ahead tomorrow."

Garbag went back to sleep almost immediately; Jonna did not. A strange desire came over her to look north, across the lake and back towards the road. Though she knew the direction from when there was light, she knew there would be nothing to see in this darkness. For the moment, there had been only the growling of thunder and no lightning: what could there be to see?

Peering out from the edge of their snowy shelter, Jonna saw afar off, faint and distant, a tiny speck of light. It was not starlight, for the sky was covered with the clouds of storm, neither was it mage-light or some phantom will-o-the-wisp: it was the clear, plain light of a tiny, distant, flame, unaffected by the wind and rain. She wondered who that light belonged to, and if they had any news of the whereabouts of her beloved Sigrun. She continued to watch the little light speck bobble along, until it was lost amid the shadows and could be seen no more.

* * *

Morning came with a rude shove. Sometime in the early morning, before the rising of the sun, Jonna had fallen asleep and was hoping to go on sleeping, had it not been for Garbag rousing her from sleep. It was time to move on. The second day of the search dawned overcast and dreary. The two mounted their horse after eating a light breakfast of dried meat, and continued on their way eastward. They soon learned that it was good that they had taken shelter beneath the trees, for beyond the little glade there were few trees on this side of the river. There would have been no protection from wind or snow, had they carried on the previous night.

Their path led them now onto the very bank of the river. Here the road on the other side was so near that they could see any that might be seen upon it. Jonna kept her eyes frequenting the road, eager to see any sign of the light she had seen last night. Yet the day wore on, the snow continued to fall, albeit gentlier than last night, and their path along the river rambled onward, but there was no sign of anyone upon the road. By and by there came a sound of rushing from the river. Their path started to slant downwards, and the river at their left-hand fell down into a frothing, roaring white fall. At the bottom of the fall were the ruins of some small buildings on the other side of the river, as well as a broken mill-wheel. Further on down, the river snaked away out of view; but upon the other side of the river, the mountains seemed to open up and reveal the remnants of a sad, crumbled city seated between the delta of the river and the bay of the sea.

"Where are we?" Jonna asked.

"An old mill-house," Garbag stated. "The dark elves destroyed it years ago and slew the inhabitants. That ruin you see below is all that remains of Windhlem, the City of the Nord's hero Ysgramor."

"What happened to it?" Jonna inquired.

"The dark elves," Garbag said. "They've renamed the city New Gnisis, slew or enslaved all the Nords, and tore down the walls. The stones they've used for their own buildings in the hold, and the graves they've disturbed and burned the bones."

"That's terrible!" Jonna exclaimed.

Garbag grunted. "My people have been driven out of Orsinium time and time again. What is it if a few humans are driven from their homes as well?"

"Don't you have any care for the suffering of these people?" Jonna asked, surprised at how much she sounded like Sigrun in her ears.

"I'm not paid to care, I'm paid to fight," Garbag replied. "And you don't have enough money to make me fight all the battles the Nords get themselves into." Jonna frowned, then looked back northward, towards the road. "You've been looking that way every few minutes or so. Expect to see something over there?" Jonna then told of what she had seen the previous night.

"That light could be anyone," the Orc said. "Whoever they were, they were foolish to try to travel by night in this snow."

"Well, you seem to know much about tracking people," Jonna returned. "Where do you think they could have gone?"

"Don't know," Garbag cryptically replied. "We're here, not on the road."

"Make a guess, then!" Jonna snapped, getting angry at Garbag's dismissal of what she felt was extremely important.

Garbag grumbled angrily. "If they weren't buried in snow or frozen to death, then we need not go out of our way to search for them." He pointed further downstream. "The road crosses the river at a bridge only a stone's throw from here. They would have had to cross there, bringing them into our path. Whoever they are and wherever they are, we're on their trail."

"Then let's go!" Jonna urged. "If we hurry, we might catch them!"

Garbag brought the horse down the slope at a trotting pace, then urged it on faster once they were at the bottom of the hill, where the falls crashed noisily into the river. Now they rode along the river at a swift pace; but not swift enough. Garbag did not let the horse go at its full pace, for the snow could hide many a fox's den or rabbit's hole into which the horse's legs might fall, breaking its legs and putting them in more trouble.

At length, they came to the bridge. Now under the horse's hooves was firm cobble-stones, and they could really go at speed. This leg of their journey seemed to go on swiftly and without any hindrance. The snow also seemed to lessen the farther east they went, though now the air was thick with moisture, yet still cold and biting with winter. The mountains began to open up and they could see more and more of the great ruin of New Gnisis, that had been Windhelm.

Suddenly Garbag brought his horse to a halt. Before them the road forked in twain: the right hand path hugged the flanks of the mountains along which they had been traveling, still relatively sheltered by some trees and outcropping of rocks. Meanwhile, the path that went straight forward went over into a wide plain that sat at the delta before Windhelm. At the end thereof a bridge of stone stretched across the river and ran up to the very gates of the city.

"What now?" Jonna asked. "Why are we stopping?"

"We're in Eastmarch now," Garbag replied. "We're not supposed to be here. Well, your kind certainly aren't allowed here. I've heard rumors that they've burned some of the strongholds and chased out my people by force."

"But which way did they go?" Jonna asked. "Sigrun or the bearer of the light?"

"Who knows?" Garbag replied. "If your friend was enslaved by Arvyn Hlas, then our journey is at an end."

"What the fuck do you mean 'our journey is at an end?'" Jonna demanded.

"She could have been taken to New Gnisis," Garbag stated. "Or the slave-camps in the marsh-lands, or farther east into Morrowind. If that's the case, you'll never see her again."

"Why not?" Jonna asked, anger rising within her breast.

"I told you before," Garbag grumbled. "Those enslaved by the Dunmer of Eastmarch are never seen again. She will be fortunate enough to die at the hand of her slave-masters. The life of a slave of the dark elves is not a pleasant one."

Jonna looked this way and that, hoping to find some indication that Sigrun was still somewhere about; that this search had not been in vain. But every way she looked revealed nothing, no hope for her. She bit her lower lip as her eyes welled up with hot tears.

"What will they do to her?" she asked, trying her damnedest not to cry.

"If she is strong, they could put her to work in the fields," Garbag stated. "Tending the scrib nests, gathering guar shit. If she is less strong, she could be a house-slave. Then again, there are some dark elves who are not as picky as House Redoran when it comes to women. But even if she is sent to work in the fields, her virtue will be gone within her first day. Of course, there is always the chance of being swiftly killed, or being purchased by a cruel master who will make your friend suffer..."

"No!" Jonna firmly stated, shaking her head. "No, there's got to be something else."

"But..."

"No buts!" Jonna retorted. "I refuse to give up on her like that! There's got to be something we haven't tried yet!"

At this, Garbag was becoming rather uncomfortable. He had already been paid for his work, and yet here he was, in enemy territory, with a young woman in great denial in his care. Part of him wanted to punch her in her plain, boring, perfect little pale face and drag her back to civilized Skyrim as fast as his horse could take her. Instead, he found himself saying something completely different.

"There's another bridge farther south," he said. "If they were making for the slave-camps in the marshes, that's where they might have gone."

"Then that's where we're going," Jonna insisted. "Now. Right now! Come on, hurry up!"

Garbag turned his horse right and made his way down the southward road. He didn't know why he was leading her on. Perhaps he reasoned that it would be easier to take her back if she didn't know she was being pulled away from the futile search.

They followed the road southward for a long while, hidden from view by the mountains on their right and the large rocks on the left. Further away they could hear the river rushing along the road, beside their path. There was no other sound, whether of bird or beast, upon hill, valley, path, or in water. In only a little while, they had passed the wide plain before the gates of New Gnisis. Here the snow ceased altogether, but the ground and the air were wet and cold. The smoke which they had seen from afar they could now see as a great haze, rising up to the gray, sullen sky to blot out the sun.

Suddenly, they saw something lying on the side of the road: something large, like a body, was lying beside the road, aside the ruin of a wagon. Garbag would have passed on without so much as a second glance, but Jonna, upon seeing the wreckage, leaped from the saddle and began to examine the wreckage.

"What is it?" Garbag asked. "There's no time!"

"Get off your horse and come take a look," Jonna stated. "You're the tracker. Maybe you can read something about this."

Garbag looked this way and that. There was no sign of anyone abroad. "We're in the open. If we're discovered, we'll be in trouble. I cannot fight off all the Dunmer of Eastmarch by myself."

"We're looking for Sigrun, aren't we?" Jonna asked. There was something about the way she said those words that seemed to suggest that she knew, or guessed, something of the Garbag's duplicity. "This could be a sign that she was here."

Garbag grumbled, dismounted and walked the horse over to the wreckage. He was unwilling to offer further assistance, as they were in danger here in Eastmarch, and was certain that Jonna's friend had been taken away to New Gnisis and would never be found again.

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

"See those bars?" she gestured to the cage that sat in the back of the wagon. "You said Arvyn Hlas is a slaver, right? This could be a slave-wagon."

"It's possible," grumbled Garbag in a low, dismissing tone.

"Can you see anything else?" Jonna asked, moving to examine the wagon thoroughly.

Garbag walked over to the body that lay beside the wagon. It was the body of a horse, large and sturdy, such as were common in Skyrim. It's front leg was broken, but it appeared that great chucks of flesh had been cut or torn off of its body, which was damp and stank.

"See here?" Garbag said, pointing to the horse's broken leg. "This might have caused the wagon to crash."

"I've heard," Jonna stated. "That they cut the horse's neck if his leg breaks. What kind of person would leave the horse crippled, lying here to be torn apart by wild beasts?"

"These marks," Garbag replied, prodding one of the gashes with his boot. "Were not made by any beast. All such beasts native to Eastmarch were hunted down and wiped out once the dark elves took over."

Jonna turned away, as a revolting thought came into her mind and the sight of the bloated horse corpse and those rotting, festering wounds made her sick to her stomach. As she turned, she noticed something crushed beneath the cage. She reached through the bars and tried to pull out what remained beneath, but it could not be removed. She called for Garbag and pointed at the crushed thing.

"Looks like a lantern," the Orc replied.

At this, Jonna's face lit up with excitement. "That ball of light I saw last night. It wasn't a torch, it was a lantern! That's why it could survive the storm without going out."

Garbag cast his eyes skyward: the clouds were moving by rather fast and a low, deep rumble was heard across the sky.

"What is it?" Jonna asked.

"Damn Skyrim weather!" Garbag grumbled. "It's always changing. First snow, then rain. We need to get to shelter, it's going to rain soon."

"No," Jonna shook her head. "No, we have to Sigrun. We're so close, I can feel it."

"We're not going to find anything!" Garbag insisted. "Listen, that wreck could very well be a slave-wagon, maybe even the one carrying your friend. But there's no path to follow."

"What do you mean?" Jonna asked.

"Look!" Garbag took her by the arm and led her over to the wagon, and with his other arm pointed at the ground. "The rain has washed out any footprints there might have been. This is another dead end: there's nothing more to look for!"

"I refuse to believe that," Jonna replied firmly. "And I won't give up on my friend that easily." With that, Jonna made her way towards the river."

"What are you doing?" Garbag asked.

"I'm wading across this river," Jonna retorted.

"I can see that," groaned Garbag. "But why?"

"I'm looking for my friend," Jonna answered, her eyes fixed on the river. "If you won't help, then I'll do it myself."

"This is mad!" shouted Garbag. "You'll be caught in the storm, or captured by slavers yourself."

"Good," Jonna replied. "Maybe then I'll find Sigrun, and we can plan our escape together."

Garbag swore in the harsh, guttural language of the Orsinmer, then mounted his horse. At first he made as though he would leave her, then turned around and, before Jonna knew what was happening, picked her up and set her on the back of his horse. Then he urged his horse into the river. Icy cold water splashed about their feet, sinking deep into their boots. For a few chilly minutes they were treading nothing but water; suddenly the horse leaped out of the river and onto the opposite shore.

"What are you doing?" Jonna asked, once they had forded the river.

"The storm will find you before you find your friend," Garbag stated. "With me, you will find shelter before the storm breaks."

"I thought you weren't going to help me," Jonna retorted.

"Do you see the smoke?" he said, pointing to the many pillars of black smoke trailing up into the sky. "That is the work of the dark elves and their slaves. Doubtless we may be seen, and you will need my help if they decide that you're an escaped slave that needs to be returned."

Jonna made no reply, but quietly thanked the Divines that the Orc was still with her.

* * *

The ground was bare and damp, and there were many ash-pits upon the ground. Some were new, others only scars of old blazes. The great smokes filled the sky and air around them, blocking any sight farther than near at hand. Suddenly a drop fell upon Jonna's face, and then another one. At this, Garbag urged the horse even faster. The horse was now going galloping hard, over stone and bare earth. Soon a light rain began to caress the earth, but the speed of the horse made its cold droplets bite upon the faces of Jonna and Garbag.

But soon their situation was growing dire. The rain kept on falling, but no matter where they looked, there was no shelter to be found: not even so much as a tree under which to pass the oncoming storm. Garbag swore under his breath, then brought the horse into a narrow ravine that was on the right-hand side of their path. It did not offer much protection, but it was better than lying out in the open. But no sooner had they entered the ravine when the rain came down in full measure, pounding relentlessly through the harsh, cold winds, soaking through to the bone with each drop.

Garbag and Jonna huddled against the cliff, wrapping themselves in their cloaks. Yet even this seemed powerless against the onslaught of the storm. Worse yet, there came now flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder in the sky. Ever and anon, a flash would illuminate the sky and the area around the ravine, dispelling for a moment the sullen darkness of the grey storm clouds. In that light, Jonna kept watch on both sides of the ravine, and saw nothing.

Hours passed, the dark deepened, but the storm raged on. Garbag seemed unperturbed by the dark or storm, but Jonna was now shivering in her thoroughly soaked cloak. Furthermore, she found herself wishing that she had never left Lakeview Manor. Because she had done so and convinced Sigrun to come with her, they had come out into the cold and wet wilderness, and Sigrun had been captured and taken as a slave. She repented of her decision and begged the gods that, if she lived or, Divines willing, she found Sigrun again, she would spend the rest of the trip back to Falkreath apologizing for the danger she brought upon them both.

It was now deep in the hours of twilight. The only light at all were the flashes of lightning, which still raged on. Jonna wondered how Garbag could sleep through the booming thunder-clashes. They kept her wide awake: or perhaps it was the rain, causing her to shiver and shake where she crouched, or maybe it was fear.

There was a flash of lightning, and in the tense, pregnant moment before the boom of thunder, Jonna caught sight of a shadowy figure standing at the southern end of the ravine. The thunder roared, and the horse gave a frightened neigh. Jonna gave Garbag a sharp jab, pointing back towards where she had seen the figure. It was still dark, and neither of them could see anything. Another flash lit the sky, and in the split second before darkness consumed their world again, the light glinted off two blades. Jonna's heart was in the depths of her stomach: they had been caught, just as Garbag feared they would be. In this dark downpour, they could not see their opponent in order to give battle.

"Stay where you are!" Garbag shouted. "Or I'll rip your arms off!"

Their opponent made no answer. Or perhaps the answer it made was so soft as to be unheard, drowned out by the pounding rain and crash of distant thunder. Lightning struck again, and the face was, for a moment, illuminated: covered in blood smeared by the rain-drops. The blood-soaked foe was drawing nearer: the last flash revealed that it had come down into the ravine with them. A groaning noise came from the enemy, as they tried to speak. But it was now so close that even a softer voice could be heard. After a lengthy silence, in which Garbag drew his axe and readied for a fight to the death, the stranger made a noise that was loud enough to be heard, even in this storm.

"Jons..."

* * *

 **(AN: Two big twists dropped in this chapter. The consequences of Jonna's choices will be revealed in time, as well as who the old man is. In the mean-time, any guesses?)  
**

 **(The opening scene came out of the blue [as most of my writing does, since i rarely ever write outlines for my work], but i liked it as it is a setup for a major counter-critique of the criticism often given to the teacher-student relation in epic fantasy settings [like pre-Disney _Star Wars_ or _Lord of the Rings_ ].)**

 **(I've been binge-watching _Smallville_ from the beginning on my brother's Hulu account. I will admit that it has plenty of cringe-worthy soap opera moments, is more ashamed of its comic book origins than the DC Cinematic universe, and is in nowhere an accurate depiction of real life [or even Kansas: seriously, what drugs were those Canadians on to think that Midwestern people would be listening to nu metal and alternative rock instead of country music?]. But one thing that bothers me to no end is mary sue Lana Lang. The entire world of Smallville and everyone in it seems to revolve around her and her wishes, she's perfect, never does anything wrong, has men [and women] tripping over themselves for her, and is successful at everything she does, despite not finishing high school or going to college. But probably her biggest flaw, which is never recognized as such, is being so damn nosy! The way she is fixated on figuring out everyone's secrets is the stuff of stalkers, and yet she expects a wide berth for her own secrets: it would make sense if Smallville were a proper, small Midwestern town with nothing going on, but that's not what the show depicts at all. Thinking about how someone can possibly rationalize being so damn nosy probably worked its way into this chapter [hence the lengthy explanation to get to that point]. Also she founded ISIS!)**


	9. Stormborn

**(AN: Feels like it's been forever and a day since i last updated anything on here. Happy 2017, my readers!)**

 **(Hopefully in between diarrhea and the fruitless search for a job, i can do a little bit more writing as i wait for my musical muse to return from the permanent vacation she seems to have taken from me.)**

* * *

 **Stormborn**

Sigrun awoke with a painful jolt against something cold and hard. Her eyes creaked open, and she saw that all was dark. It had been dark by the shed behind the longhouse in Winterhold. But she was not in Winterhold anymore, that she could as much as guess without light. She could hear voices hereabouts; strange voices, such that she had never heard. They spoke the Common Tongue, but it was drawling and uncouth. Suddenly it became apparent that at least one of those voices she had heard before: the voice of Arvyn Hlas. Without sight, Sigrun tried to pay attention to what was being said.

"Stupid fetcher!" Arvyn's voice was raised. "You know the rules: no stopping unless I say so!" There was a crack of a whip.

"But the light!" another voice cried. "It could have been the other one."

"Are you jumping at shadows now?" Arvyn shouted. Again the crack of the whip was heard. "There's plenty of strange things in Winterhold. But we don't stop until we're safely in Eastmarch, not for any lights you might be imagining. Stop without my orders again and I'll have your hide for a cloak and your cock for a trophy!" Another whip-crack. "Filthy Hlaalu _n'wahs_! Your kind should have all burned centuries ago! Now move it!"

Sigrun felt the ground shake and heard a creak of wood: she guessed that she was in a wagon. But as she tried to move, she found that her legs and hands were bound fast with iron bonds. The wagon gave a lurch and began jostling along the road. Snow and wind drifted through the cage's bars, and Sigrun was chilled. It suddenly dawned upon her that she must have fallen in with some rascal who had abducted her. Her first urge was to cry out and try to escape, then she remembered that she wasn't armed: Jonna had her sword, axe and old Havi's spell-sword. Even were she armed, she could not move her hands to reach as little as a knife.

For hours beyond count in the darkness, Sigrun jostled about inside the back of the wagon. No light was lit by her captors, nor were there any further words. Only the howling of the wind and the rumbling of the cart could be heard. How many hours that passed, Sigrun could not guess. But no matter how dark it was, Sigrun could not sleep: the danger was too great even for the weariness of her body. At last, however, the wagon came to a halt. There were more voices speaking in the Common Tongue: the voice of Arvyn, but new voices also. Not the drawling, uncouth voices of Dunmer, but the polished, preening drawl of the Imperials, the folk of Cyrodiil. Furthermore, Sigrun also noticed tiny specks of light. She tried to stir in her cage, when suddenly she was struck again and fell into darkness.

Sigrun awoke again, and noticed that it was daylight. The wagon was inside a courtyard, beneath a burlap roof. She also saw several other dark elves nearby: Arvyn was near the cart, and he seemed to be keeping watch on it. Beyond the little shelter, she could see the stone walls of some fort, and several red blurs walking hither and yon. A second glance and she saw a black flag blowing in the wind; upon that flag was a red device, the emblem which her father had hated for its use and betrayal of himself, of Skyrim, and of her people.

The emblem was the red diamond of the Imperial Legion.

Just then, Arvyn seemed to notice Sigrun was awake. He turned to her, a smile on his face.

"Awake already?" he asked with an air of smugness. "I'd have thought you'd spend more time sleeping. You didn't think nobody noticed you lying awake all night, did you? I'd get some sleep if I were you: you're going to need it."

"Where am I?" Sigrun asked.

"Fort Kastav," Arvyn replied. "We're here to pick up more stock from the fort's jailer. Oh, I wouldn't bother trying to escape or cry out. The Imperials have never meddled in our business before, even when we were their slaves. They won't bother now."

"What are you going to do with me?" Sigrun asked.

"Oh," Arvyn tutted. "And here I thought you were the smart one. As it so happens, you're now a slave; and I aim to sell you for a high price in New Gnisis."

"What about what you said before?" she asked again. "All that talk about helping Nords." Suddenly a swift jab from a blunt weapon struck Sigrun in the ribs.

"Don't put words in my mouth, _n'wah_ b*tch!" Arvyn replied, sounding quite offended. He composed himself, then continued in his smug tone. "What I said was that I wished to restore the bonds between Dunmer and Nords. And I truly do wish to restore the bonds between Dunmer and Nords: the bonds of slavery, that is!" He burst into laughter.

"But don't you worry your pretty little head, _n'wah_ ," the dark elf continued. "You'll have plenty of company soon enough. Not very talkative, but those are the rules. As for your cunt, you're worth more as a virgin." At this, he pressed his face against the bars, his red eyes glaring at Sigrun, and his voice a low, venomous hiss. "But don't think that you can escape on account of our kindness. There are other ways we can punish feisty little _n'wah_ b*tches that you won't like that won't harm your virtue none." At this, he stuck out his tongue and yelled at Sigrun. Instinctively she flinched, and Arvyn laughed as he pulled away from the bars.

Sigrun did not say any more words. True to her fears, she had indeed fallen in with a great rascal and was now a slave. She wondered if Jonna knew that she was missing and was right now searching for her: doubtless she would, brave-heart. Yet it was miles from Winterhold to the Nightgate Inn, where she told Jonna to meet her, and by the time she realized that Sigrun was missing, she herself would be many miles away.

After a few minutes passed, the sound of a trumpet being blown outside caught the attention of Arvyn and Sigrun. The Dunmer walked over to the wagon and made sure the cage was secured, then he left the little shelter with the other elves. With some time to herself, Sigrun decided that she should make the best use of it. She shifted this way and that, but found that her bonds were securely in place. A rumbling noise in her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday at the Nightgate Inn; if only one day had passed since then. She doubted even if at full strength she could break from her bonds.

There was a noise of commotion in the courtyard. Sigrun shifted herself so that she could see as much as could be seen; which, admittedly, was not very much. The little group of dark elves were standing off to one side, which she could tell if one moved or from where their voice was heard. From the other side appeared Imperial soldiers, dragging four prisoners in chains: Sigrun guessed that they were prisoners because of the rags in which they were dressed, and the fact that their hands were bound. For a brief moment, she caught a glimpse of them: an Argonian covered in shimmering emerald scales, two women, one older and one younger, and a young boy. Arvyn appeared and began slowly walking before the prisoners, inspecting them: in his left hand was a short black club, which he stroked almost lovingly with his right hand.

"Not as good as your usual stock," Arvyn drawled.

"Times have been hard up here, Hlas," an Imperial spoke, though Sigrun could not see who was speaking. "Winterhold is a ghost county, and the locals are afraid to violate the new laws. We've had to drum up a few of them..."

"Spare me your silver-tongued excuses, Imperial scum," Arvyn retorted. He paused in front of the Argonian, then tore the ragged clothes off his back. He then laughed aloud.

"A runaway slave!" Arvyn exclaimed. He quieted down and inspected the others. "Hmm, this one's hairs have gone a bit gray."

"She's a Nord, ain't she?" the Imperial asked. "Their hair's naturally that light."

"Now this one," Arvyn said, leering at the younger girl. "This one'll fetch a high price." He put his hand between the woman's legs, who stifled a cry. "Ah, not bad, not bad at all." Then he came to the young boy. "Scrawny little runt, this one. Still, he could be of use to someone."

"Well?" the Imperial asked. "What do you think?"

"Twenty ebon for the lizard and the old hag," Arvyn said. "Two hundred for the boy and the b*tch."

"We deal in septims out here, Hlas, you know that," the Imperial replied.

"And where by the cock of Vivec is someone like me supposed to get filthy gold drakes?" Arvyn asked.

"You're the miser, Hlas, not me," said the Imperial. "I'm sure you have friends in Riften who can hook you up."

"Well, that's my price," Arvyn stated.

"Well, I want more," the Imperial returned. "Already put myself out quite a bit, getting your boys up here. Plus, the lizard is clearly worth two hundred."

"He's a runaway slave," Arvyn returned. "That makes him a liability, both to me and to my customers. Nobody's gonna want a slave that might bring trouble."

"Still, he's healthy," the Imperial said. "Don't your people need strong hands, what with all the clear-cutting and burning you do in Eastmarch?"

Arvyn did not answer.

"As I said, two twenty for the lot of them," he spoke at last.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," the Imperial interjected. Sigrun then saw him approach Arvyn: he was dressed in the garb of the Imperial Legion, with a cloak of gray wolf's fur about his shoulders. "Now, I told you that I want more. I don't really give a damn about them, I'm talking about my personal cut for boarding your slavers."

"There will be no compensation," Arvyn stated. "That is part of our deal: shelter and protect my people, and we'll buy off your prisoners."

"I don't think you understand, Hlas," the Imperial said. "You're giving me what I want, there's no two ways about it, alright? Either you give me my cut, or I'll send a message to Cyrodiil. I wonder what the Emperor or the Elder Council might say if they found out about your little slave racket?"

Arvyn chuckled. "You're going to have to work on your threats, n'wah. The Elder Council is in the pocket of the Aldmeri Dominion, and they don't bother themselves with the Dunmer. Also, we both know Emperor Crixus is tripping over himself to suck my people's collective cocks. What makes you think he'll turn on us now?" The Imperial made no answer.

"That's what I thought," Arvyn returned. "Your kind are weak. The time of the elves has come, and your Empire is just the shell of a dying shalk. Throwing around the Emperor's name won't get you anything." He spoke several words in a language Sigrun could not understand, and one of the other elves appeared with a bag in hand. "Take your money and go."

While the one elf was shilling out the payment, three others approached the prisoners. The boy and women were dragged away out of sight, then the three appeared again. Each of them were bearing clubs and they attacked the Argonian without mercy, beating him until he fell to the ground, holding his arms above his head to protect himself. At this, Arvyn told them to halt; but instead of reprimanding them, he approached the Argonian and removed his trousers.

"You lizards like water, yes?" Arvyn drawled in a mocking tone. "Here, why not have a drink?"

Sigrun winced as she saw the poor Argonian coughing and sputtering as Arvyn pissed in his face; then the other three joined in and did likewise. Meanwhile, the Imperial had taken his money and turned his attention to their behavior.

"Don't you think that's a little too much, Hlas?" he asked.

"It's decidedly less than he deserves," Arvyn said as he pulled his trousers back into place. "Besides, if you had the chance to stick it to those filthy gold-skins that brought your Empire to its knees, wouldn't you?"

"The Empire is stronger than ever," the Imperial stated, putting on a haughty air of authority. "We were not brought low by the Dominion: we agreed to a truce that we have kept for these forty years. Besides, we're not like you dark elves. We welcome the opportunity to work together with the Altmer for our mutual benefit. _We_ respect other races..."

"That's why your Emperor regularly punishes the snow-backs," Arvyn stated. "And turns a blind eye to our slave trade. Because you Imperials respect other races." He laughed arrogantly. "Keep living in the past, _n'wah_. If the Empire were strong, would they have allowed House Sadras to annex Cheydinhal without even so much as a fight?"

There was no answer. Meanwhile, Sigrun saw the other three, now fully cloathed, bringing the first three of the prisoners. Like herself, their hands were bound; once they were brought to the cart, their feet were bound and they were placed up against the wall. Then they went for the Argonian, and with their clubs beat him all the way back into the shed, where they roughly bound him in chains. Then Arvyn and the other elf appeared, walking towards the cart in the shed.

"Viras," Arvyn said to the elf who had the bag. "Unlock the gate. Salus, Edril, Dovyn, make sure she doesn't try anything."

The elf Arvyn had called Viras removed from his belt a chain of keys, from which he took a dark gray one and put it to the lock in the wagon's cage. Sigrun tried to curl up against the back of the wagon: Salus, Edril and Dovyn were the three elves that had beaten and pissed on the Argonian, and they were now coming for her.

The cage was opened. Edril, the largest of them, seized Sigrun by her feet and dragged her out of the cart, throwing her onto the ground. Arvyn, Viras, and the driver then roughly shoved the other slaves into the back of the wagon. Sigrun, meanwhile, was pulled to her feet by the three elves and then subjected to the worst humiliation she had yet faced: Edril pawed at her hair, Salus groped every part of her body he could get his gray-blue hands on, and Dovyn held Sigrun's head in his hands and licked her face.

"Come along now," Arvyn said to them. "We haven't got all day."

With a look of disappointment, the three threw Sigrun into the back of the wagon with the others. Then they picked up the Argonian, threw him inside the cage, and Viras locked the door behind them. One by one, they climbed atop the wagon, readying for their departure: then suddenly Arvyn's club poked through the bars and struck the little boy on the back.

"Not a sound from any of you, ya hear?" he demanded. "I hear as much as a peep, and my club will be getting mighty friendly with you. Now shut it!"

The wagon gave a lurch as the driver whipped the horse and left the shelter. Four more elves appeared, each of them dressed warmly, armed with curved blades and leading a horse behind them. These, it seemed were the escorts for the slavers. All told, ten Dunmer were here around the cart: even were she armed, these odds would be too much for Sigrun.

* * *

As the wagon left Fort Kastav, it became apparent that they had spent more hours there than Sigrun had believed. Though the day had not yet turned to night, it was growing old and the sun was already coming to rest upon the mountain peaks to the west. Sigrun also noticed that the sky above them was filling with dark clouds: a storm was fast approaching. Despite this, the slavers didn't seem to be in all that much of a hurry. The wagon carried on at a steady pace, with no thought of the coming storm.

The road was long and cold, for as they were going, a light snow began to descend from the mountain heights. The boy and the young girl begged for something warm to cover themselves from the cold, but they received nothing but a strike from the clubs. The older woman tried to reason that, if they were to be slaves, they would be worth more alive than dead. Despite her words, she also received a brutal clubbing and was silenced. For the rest of that day, they was silence in the back of the wagon.

Sigrun remained silent, using her eyes and ears more than anything else. The other Dunmer's names she learned in due process: the driver was called Llovys, and the four guards were Erso, Damar, Vedran and Tens. Viras, it seemed, was Arvyn's right-hand mer in this venture: he kept the keys as well as the money bag. Him Sigrun watched intently, for she guessed that her first opportunity to escape would come from him. The guards were of the same temperament as the other three, though they kept to themselves. Most of them bore spears, and had short, one-handed swords upon their belts, but Erso had a blade that was slightly curved and longer than the other swords. If she attempted to escape, she knew that she would either need a weapon or know which ones to keep watch on as she tried to flee.

The day wore on, and soon the sun was almost hidden in the clouds. As for the snow, it continued to fall in thicker and thicker. Arvyn refused to stop for the night, and instead ordered Viras to light a lantern and hang it upon the wagon. With this, the wagon rode on through the night without any sign of stopping. Weary and sore, Sigrun was tempted to fall asleep, yet she willed her body to stay awake. As the night deepened, the cold began to tell on all of them. Even Sigrun was shivering despite her best attempt to remain steadfast. The little boy suddenly gave a whimper, but unfortunately it was loud enough to be heard. Dovyn clambered down off the top of the wagon and began taunting the little boy.

"What's the matter, little _n'wah_?" he asked. "Are you cold?" The boy nodded. "Here, I'll give you something nice and warm."

With that, he dragged the boy up to his feet and ripped off his trousers. Sigrun looked away, but the boy's mournful cries and agonizing screams rang in her ears: they were the worst sounds she had ever heard in her entire life. She wondered if the poor people of Whiterun screamed the same way when they were nailed to the walls of the city. Merely thinking about it made her want to vomit. In her heart, wrath was boiling over like a cauldron: wrath that she could do nothing but listen to his poor, pained cries. In the silence of the darkness, Sigrun came to a conclusion.

Whether or not Arvyn Hlas had promised her safety was immaterial; like they did to the little boy, these slavers might find another way to please themselves without laying a finger on her maidenhead. The farther they went along the road, the more Sigrun realized that, even if Jonna were searching for her - brave-heart - she would never find her. She felt helpless without her weapon, and even more-so without her best friend, as dear to her as her sister Lucia. Yet she would never see any of them again, not in this case, and it did not matter if she felt vulnerable without Jonna. She knew that she would have to do something on her own, make her own escape, or else forfeit her life. Despite the desperation of the situation, Sigrun swore to herself that she would find a way to escape, somehow or another. It was with those words that weariness overcame her and she fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Sigrun's sleep was troubled by greatly disturbing dreams. In a moment she was carried out of the little wagon and into a dark wood. The trees were black, even darker than though they had been burned with fire, and pale eyes bubbled upon their bark, all of them gazing at her. From out of the dark there appeared the hooded figure, bearing a staff in its hand. Sigrun had a feeling that she knew this old man, but how she knew him she could not guess. The old man and the trees vanished, and she found herself in a dark valley with sullen clouds blotting out the light. A giant brass man appeared out of nowhere, and Sigrun realized that he had her father Eirik captive. She reached out towards him, but the scene shifted again. She was now wrapped inside a silk bag that gave gently if she pushed or kicked against it; even stranger, she found that the bag was filled with water and that she didn't need to breathe. There was a reddish light coming from somewhere, which was periodically darkened by a shadow that passed ever and anon. For some reason, that shadow seemed to give comfort to Sigrun, and she reached out with her hand to touch it. A voice spoke tenderly as her hand reached for the shadow, and though the voice was vague, as though coming from beneath the earth, Sigrun felt happy upon hearing the voice. Then another voice, thin and hissing, broke from the silence and the bag was suddenly struck. She was filled with fear and a dreadful knowledge that the bag must not be broken. She could hear the little boy crying, and then her own voice seemed to be crying as well.

Suddenly there was another violent blow, and Sigrun awoke. She was bound inside the cage, sore and hungry, in the early hours of the morning. She soon realized that the wagon was not moving, and that she was lying on her side, with at least several other bodies lying upon her. The voices of Arvyn and Llovys suddenly burst through over the sound of nearby rushing water and a screaming, bellowing horse; one angry and the other fearful.

"It wasn't my fault, sirrah!" Llovys begged. "These things happen!"

"Oh, do they, now?" Arvyn retorted. "I've got a haul bigger than your mother's arse and the horse breaks its fucking leg, and all you can say is 'these things happen?'"

"We shouldn't have rode through the night," Llovys returned. "He needed rest..."

"So it's _my_ fault, then, is that it?" Arvyn asked. Again the sound of a cracking whip was heard. "I've just about had enough of you!"

"We should have gone to New Gnisis straight away," Salus drawled.

"Shut up, fetcher!" Arvyn snapped. "We go where I say we go and when I say we go there. If you don't like it, then find yourself another slaver to work for." Sigrun saw Arvyn turn to Llovys, grab him by the neck and drag him down a nearby ravine. There was a loud splashing of water, then after a few minutes it subsided and Arvyn walked back up alone.

"Well, what are you fetchers all waiting for?" Arvyn demanded. "Get a move on!"

"Where we goin'?" Edril asked.

"To the slave-camps in the marshland," Arvyn grumbled. "It's closer on foot."

"But that be the other side the river!" Edril returned.

"So?"

"Them prisoner's be bound 'and and foot!" Edril returned.

"Then you and the others take the bonds off their legs," Arvyn said. "We need them to walk. And use the club if they try anything."

"What about the river?" Salus asked. "We're famished and we can't wade through it on an empty stomach."

"Did you fetchers really eat all of our rations in one sitting?" Arvyn asked.

"We was 'ungry," Edril replied.

"Troubles take you all!" Arvyn swore. "Do I have to do everything for you?" He sighed angrily. "Skin the horse, I'm sure we can use it's meat."

"Do you want us to cut it's throat first?" Erso asked.

"Did I say that?" Arvyn asked. "Let the b*tch suffer. Can't abide these hairy, human beasts anyway."

The horse cried out in agony as Dovyn, Vedran and Tens began cutting off large strips of meat out of it's living body. Even worse, the pained cries of the horse seemed to fill the Dunmer with delight, for they laughed and kicked the horse as they carved it up. Suddenly the cage was opened and Edril began dragging the prisoners out one by one and throwing them upon the road. Viras then took the key-chain and unfastened the bonds about their legs. Most of them were too cold, sore and weary to attempt any escape.

"Don't eat all the meat either, you fucking sloads!" Arvyn shouted. "Now then, get them on their feet and into the river."

"I can't swim!" the little boy cried out.

"Then you better learn, _n'wah_ brat!" Dovyn replied as he dragged the boy by the neck and into the river.

Before Sigrun knew what was going on, Edril and Erso had lifted her off her feet and she was going down into the river with the others. The water was icy cold and the river was deep; but she was tall and her feet found the bottom and, despite the current and her bound hands, she was able to paddle towards the other side. Despite being heavily wounded, the Argonian had the least trouble wading across the water. The older woman seemed to be going rather slowly, and it was then that Sigrun noticed her arm was covered in blood. The younger woman was trying her best to keep the older one's head above water, though both of their hands were bound.

At last Sigrun came up on dry ground. If there had been any thought of fleeing, it was quickly dismissed. Damar, Edril and Erso had crossed the river before them, and Erso's long-sword was drawn and ready in his hands to strike down any who might try to escape. Looking back, she saw the little boy was floundering in the water, unable to swim and being dragged down by the heavy manacles around his wrists. The rest of the Dunmer made it across the river, leaving the horse to suffer and bleed out on the other side: none of them gave so much as a second thought to the little boy. Arvyn, who was the last one across, merely looked back at the drowning boy and sighed.

"Fucking _n'wahs_ ," he sneered. "More trouble than they're worth. But I've lost enough today, no use crying over another one." He turned around to the others.

"We make for the slave-camps in the marshes," he proclaimed. "We stop for nothing. Is that clear?"

The others grudgingly agreed, then, with some rope that had been salvaged from the wreck of the cart, tied each of the prisoners together on a line. The Argonian went first, with Sigrun, the young girl and the older girl following on behind, and the now nine Dunmer walking in front, to the side, or behind. Thus they left the river and began walking on into a barren, sullen land. As they were climbing up the hill away from the river, Sigrun looked back towards the river. The form of the drowning boy could be seen, floating lifelessly away downstream.

* * *

The day finally dawned dull and gray in the sky above. Storm clouds and a haze of smoke obscured the sun before them, and the farther east and south they went, the smoke began to appear behind them, obscuring the sight of the river. The Dunmer urged them on relentlessly, sometimes using the whip or club to keep them going. They hungrily devoured the horse meat they had carved off of the dying horse's body, but did not share any with the slaves.

As for Sigrun, she was now deep in thought as she tried to keep up with the frantic pace set by her captors. Her legs were free, and now if she could only reach Viras, she might be able to set them all free. The worst part about this was that Viras was at the head of the company, and between them were the four guards and large Edril. Not only this, but she was weary, having not eaten for almost two days, and she could not count on the help of the others. The young girl, though a Nord, was small and looked as though she had no desire to pick up a sword before she had been captured. The Argonian was tall and strong, though he also was starved and received more blows than the others had: it seemed her captors delighted especially in punishing him even when he had done nothing to deserve it.

Suddenly the line came to a halt as they were dragged back by a heavy weight. Arvyn ordered those in front to wait as he drew out a knife and cut the old woman off of the line: she had collapsed and could not be roused. Once she had been cut free, Arvyn kicked her body aside and, sending the whip cracking across Sigrun's back, urged them on again.

Then came the rain. Slowly at first, but suddenly increasing until it became a great downpour. Everyone was soaked to the bone and miserable. The lashes upon Sigrun's back stung as the water dripped relentlessly upon them. Ever and anon, one of their captors' restraint gave way and they would strike one of the prisoners: usually the Argonian, but Sigrun and the young girl got more than their fair share of stripes and blows as well. In between watching where she was going and holding back the pain of her wounds, Sigrun tried to plan her escape. The clouds above were so thick and the rain so heavy that one could scarce see very far: if she did not at least try to get to Viras, it would be too late. They would get wherever they were going, or tire of dragging them along, and then it would be over.

Her thoughts went to Arvyn. He had been acting strangely ever since she had awoken this morning. At first he seemed eager to make a quick septim from their captivity. Now it seemed that he had no care whether his prisoners lived or died. Perhaps something had happened between falling asleep the night before and waking up that morning in the crashed wagon that had caused him to change his mind. Whatever it was, Sigrun had no desire to be the next one to suffer.

The clouds overhead began to darken and the Dunmer became more and more restless and uneasy. Now it seemed that they were doing not much else in between walking but taking turns beating the Argonian. Suddenly the company came to a complete halt: chaos had ensued. Edril and Tens had grabbed the young girl, while most of the others were beating the Argonian with their clubs. Damar then stepped up and, seizing the Argonian by the feathers that grew from behind his ears, said something about how he reminded him of his favorite guar. What happened next was no better than what had happened to the boy, as Damar lifted the Argonian's tail and, with the others holding him down, began to do something no normal person would have done to their favorite pet. Sigrun was about to look away when a strong hand seized her by the throat.

"Didn't forget about you, _n'wah_ ," Dovyn hissed. "You taste good, for a snow-back. I wonder if your face is the only part on you that's so soft and supple." With that, his right hand began groping up her thighs. She tried not to cry out, but a frightened gasp escaped her lips when Dovyn's hands roughly gripped the gap between her legs. Suddenly there was a slash, blood splashed across Sigrun's face, and Dovyn backed away, crying like a baby: his right hand had been severed at the wrist.

"Hands off my property, fetcher!" Arvyn shouted. With his sword in one hand and club in the other, Arvyn's attention was firmly fixed on chasing off Dovyn.

But in the commotion, Sigrun noticed that the slice from Arvyn's sword that had cut off Dovyn's hand had also cut the rope that bound her to the other slaves. Though her hands were still bound, she was free of the main line. Escape was now possible: all she had to do was run as fast as her tired legs could, and hope that the rain and the debauchery were enough to mask her escape. She almost leaped at the chance, but remained frozen in place. How could she possibly go and leave the young woman and Argonian at the mercy of these slavers? How could she ever truthfully claim to care for Skyrim's people if she, like the people of Whiterun, turned a blind eye and deaf ear to their suffering? But she was unarmed and weary, and the darkness grew and the rain did not cease.

"Kyne," she prayed under her breath. "Whose children we are, and who commands the powers of the sky. Grant me the strength to strike down these elves and save the prisoners."

The cold rain sent shivers all across her body. The dry, leaf-less ground beneath her feet was growing muddy. But she had said what might truly be her final words, and now there was nothing else for it. Jonna or no Jonna, she would either act or die. Steeling herself, she ran towards the two Dunmer who had pinned the young woman down and threw herself against Tens, who was the smaller of the two, knocking him down into the mud. Edril noticed the attack and, pulling himself out and up to his knees, reached over to seize Sigrun; she delivered a swift kick to the face with her muddy boots. She tried to stand up, but found it difficult to do with her hands bound. Her feet slipped in the mud and she couldn't get a firm grip to try to push herself upright. Unfortunately, that gave her enemies the advantage. Vedran and Salus broke away from watching the Argonian's humiliation and seized Sigrun by each of her arms. Erso also joined them, drawing his long-sword slowly from its sheath.

"Pathetic _n'wah_ ," Erso mocked. He then raised his sword up high, aimed directly at Sigrun, so as to cut her in half from the head down. She struggled against her enemies, but there was no escape. Her escape attempt had failed.

Suddenly there was a bright pink flash that, after the gray, sullen darkness of the storm, was blinding in its intensity. For a moment Sigrun could feel nothing: she thought that she was dead. But then her nerves exploded into twitching fits of agony, and she rolled around helplessly in the mud. She was in the mud, but still alive. The three elves had been knocked away and were shuddering and cursing: Erso's blade had melted. Suddenly Sigrun noticed that her hands were also free, and she pushed herself back up onto her feet, willing herself to ignore the ache and weariness that urged her to lie down.

She charged again at them, pushing Salus to the ground. She could still remember his greedy hands as they moved across her body. With a fury and strength that she did not know she possessed, she tore apart his narrow, bony face with her bare hands. She reached for his groin, to rip off something else, but her hand touched the hilt of a sword. She rolled aside as Vedran and now Tens were charging at her together, then drew out the sword and cut Vedran's leg out from under him. The pouring rain and distant crash of thunder could not drown out the agonized howls as Vedran tried in vain to remain upright.

Now she was on her feet again, sword in hand, and fire pumping through her veins that made the chill of the rain vanish. Tens and Edril were now on their feet, drawing their weapons, charging towards her at once. Without thinking she dove forward into the mud, as her enemies collided into each other. Edril got up, but Tens did not: Edril's blade had dug into his back. But Sigrun hadn't been idle. She drove her sword through the back of Edril's leg, sending the large Dunmer falling to the ground. Then, rising to her feet, she dug the sword blade into his neck. It went in half-way but didn't complete the cut all the way through: but Edril was dead nonetheless. Then, as Tens was trying to pull himself up, Sigrun drove her sword through the back of his neck and out his mouth.

By now the others had more or less realized that they were under attack. Erso was groping for a fallen club in the rain, while Vedran was hopping about, sword in hand, eager for payback. Salus was lying in the mud, crying and bleeding out of the gashes in his face, Arvyn was nowhere to be found, and neither was Dovyn: only Damar seemed not to notice the fight, so absorbed was he in his mischief against the Argonian. But then suddenly Viras leaped upon Sigrun from behind, grabbing her by the throat. Her eyesight was blurred, and the rain only made it worse. In a moment, she took to her knees and sent Viras over her back.

With space to breathe, Sigrun didn't wait for anything, but blocked the blow from Vedran's sword, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling back into the mud. Another roar of thunder split the twilight sky as she brought her sword across Viras' chest, just recently back onto his feet. The blow stung and sent the inexperienced slaver staggering back, clutching at the wound. Suddenly she lost her footing, as Vedran pulled her to the ground. Sigrun rolled aside as Erso's club swing fell amiss and hit the dirt. Back on her feet again, she turned about as Viras was charging at her again; she thrust the sword straight into his stomach. A long, loud, gurgling death-rattle escaped his lips, along with a fair amount of blood that splattered upon Sigrun's face.

Slowly she rose to her feet, as another bolt of lightning crashed in the mountains behind her. Vedran and Erso were cowering in fear, facing down this woman who had slain three of their number and seriously wounded two. By now, Damar had finished his business and left the Argonian lying in a blood of his own blood. But he hadn't the time to pull up his trousers as he noticed the three dead bodies and Salus lying on the ground, moaning and groaning in helpless agony. Without missing a beat, he picked up a blade and charged at Sigrun. With sword in hand, she blocked the first blow, then the second, then the third. Years of training and the fire that now burned in her veins were enough to keep her alive in a duel of swords. Her opponent was not very large, but seemed rather slow in his movements. In one brief glance at his naked lap, Sigrun saw the reason. A wicked thought, brought on likely by the ill-treatment she had received at their hands, came into Sigrun's mind and she drove her sword straight through his groin, slicing off all the members at once. Damar dropped his sword and collapsed into the mud, weeping like a baby as he held his hands over his wound. But the massive amount of blood pouring out from between his fingers showed that the wound was fatal.

Thinking that he had now the advantage, Erso charged at Sigrun from behind, hoping to catch her unawares and deliver a killing blow to the back. But whether she knew or guessed that he was coming, she took to one knee and spun around, blade outwards, towards her opponent. On dry ground it would have been a deftly executed cut, but in the mud, she slipped and fell forward into the mud. Still, the blade met her opponent's chest, slicing through the brittle chitin armor and biting into the flesh. Erso fell forward, a look of surprise on his face as he met the mud.

"Fucking _n'wah_!" Vedran's voice cried out, as he crawled menacingly towards her. "The Troubles take you! You think you're won? Lord Vivec knows all things. He'll find you, he'll find you wherever you run and hide, and when he does, he'll ram his cock down your fucking throat!"

But Sigrun did not remain fallen down. She pushed herself back onto her feet, took up her sword, and shoved it into Vedran's mouth, silencing him forever. As she pulled the sword out, suddenly a hand seized her from behind, a hand she knew far too well.

"Snow back b*tch!" hissed Dovyn. "You cost me my hand. Now I'm gonna make you suffer, long and hard!"

She threw her head back, hitting him in the chin and stunning them both. As the brief concussion faded and her vision returned, she saw a hand holding a stone coming straight towards her. Bringing up the sword, she cut off his left hand as well, leaving Dovyn with two bloody stumps at the end of his arms. He let out a loud, frightened cry and collapsed to the ground, gazing at his bleeding stumps in horror. But his tears meant nothing to Sigrun: it was less than he deserved for what he had done to her. But there was still one left, lying in the ground, gasping for air and weeping pathetically.

"P-Please...show mercy," begged Salus. "I didn't mean any harm, I just..."

"You wanted to fuck me, is that it?" Sigrun asked. She knelt down, pulling Salus' head up by his wet, greasy, black hair. "I'm going to send you to your dead gods, dark elf." She then brought up her sword to the level of his scalp. "When they ask how you became so scarred, you tell them you bear the punishment of your sins. You tell them that Sigrun, daughter of Eirik Dragonborn, child of storm, has so disfigured you!"

With that, she began crudely hacking off his filthy hair with her sword. She did not spare his scalp, but cut it off in bloody strips with each blow. Her ears were deaf to his cries; all that went through her mind were this mongrel's filthy fingers as they pawed at her hair. Now he was going to meet his ancestors with no air, not even much of a scalp. When at last his blue-gray head was shorn of hair, bloodied and scarred, Sigrun left off torturing him.

She rose to her feet, amid the downpour, then her knees gave out and she fell down into the mud. The fire died out and she was weary, wearier than she had ever been. Her eyesight was dim and her limbs ached worse than they had in her whole life. It was all she could do to keep from falling forward into the mud and lying among her enemies. Instead, she gripped the hilt of her sword, stabbed it into the earth and pushed herself back onto her feet. Into her mind came again the prisoners which she had forgotten.

Wearily she staggered among them and examined them. The young woman's throat had been slit and she lay dead upon the ground. The Argonian, however, had received the worst punishment possible. Aside from having been violated, he was filled with cuts and deep gashes where the other elves had treated him none so kindly. It seemed that he met a slow, vile and miserable death.

Sigrun now pushed herself back onto her feet and undertook the hardest part of her journey yet. Seven Dunmer lay dead at her feet, slain by her hand. Dovyn she could not see, and Arvyn seemed to have quit the fight at the onset. Now she must needs make good on her escape, or else wait here to be found by Arvyn or more slavers. With sword in hand, unable to fight but unwilling to meet anyone else without a strong argument, Sigrun resigned herself to this wearisome task. The light had gone by now and only the intermident flashes of lightning gave her any idea of where she was at or where she was going. She did not know if she was making for the river, her goal, or going deeper into Dunmer territory, and towards these slave-camps in the marshes. Yet she continued forward, refusing to give up though her limbs screamed at her to do so.

How long she wandered in this state she could not guess. The storm refused to relent, and the moons, which before had been her guide in the darkness, were now veiled. Previously a flash of lightning had illuminated what appeared to be a ravine somewhat before her path. She hoped that there would be an overhanging cliff, under which she might take refuge from the storm. Carefully, so as to not misstep, she made her way slowly around to the mouth of the ravine, using the lightning to guide her path. Now she stood at its mouth and began hobbling forward: she was weary, hungry, the bruises she had received from falling down in the mud were aching beyond belief, and her breath came out in rasping gasps. She was now walking into the ravine when another lightning-flash illuminated two figures before her in the ravine, with hands on their weapons: one larger, and the other smaller. Her hope, it seemed, had cheated her. She had fled the slavers only to come upon these two out here in the middle of the night.

As weariness and hopelessness overcame her, Sigrun's thoughts drifted to Jonna. She muttered her name, and then collapsed to the ground.

* * *

 **(AN: Actually, i had "Flash of the Silver-Hammer" in mind when i envisioned the latter part of this chapter.)**

 **(I'm sure somebody is going to be upset at the twist on Arvyn Hlas' character and how i depicted everyone's precious Dunmer. But in the official Elder Scrolls lore, House Hlaalu was disgraced and lost its Great House status after the Red Year. And with my Nerevarine Llevas Dorvayn having never opposed slavery or abolished it - there is no statement in the official lore of Nerevarine abolishing slavery - it is in fact quite alive and well in annexed Eastmarch. Also Emperor Crixus would turn a blind eye to the reinstatement of slavery, since it's 'just the Nords' and he is greatly desirous of making friends with the Great Houses of Morrowind.)**


	10. Old Ways for Old Gods

**(AN: As you might have guessed, this chapter is going to introduce yet another sub-plot into the story, as well as an 'old friend'.)**

 **(In the last two chapters, we got to see what happens when our two heroines are separated. Now we will get to see their reaction to how each other responded to those situations. They might just surprise themselves.)**

* * *

 **Old Ways for Old Gods**

Jonna did not wait for the lightning to strike again. Nobody else in Skyrim called her by her pet-name, not even her mother; only one person used that particular name. She ran forward and caught the lone warrior as she collapsed forward into her, rain and cold be damned. Garbag came and helped drag Sigrun back to the side of the hill, where the three huddled together against the cold, wet stone. They were all soaked through to the bone, and even Jonna's cloak was soaked and worthless right now as warmth or protection from the rain. Sigrun struggled to speak, but could only get out one word.

"F-Food..."

Jonna offered her some of the dried meat Garbag had given her, which she devoured ravenously. No other words were said between the two young women.

"I take it this is your friend, then?" Garbag asked.

"Yes," Jonna nodded.

Sigrun fell asleep almost as soon as she had finished the meat. Jonna, meanwhile, wrapped her arms around Sigrun and held her as tightly as possible: a cold chill filled her little body as the night deepened and she needed the warmth. Though they were all soaked, Garbag also huddled together with the two women and one by one they at last fell asleep, amid the pounding rain.

The new day dawned. The storm had passed, and the smokes were not yet filling the sky above them. Sigrun was the first to wake, whether by some uneasiness or because her natural cycle of sleep had been disrupted by the trip by cart. Gently she roused Jonna, who awoke with red eyes and a stuffy nose: she had taken a cold.

"It's not like us Nords to get sick so easily," Sigrun said.

"Is that all thanks I get," Jonna breathed. "For...coming all this way to find you?"

"I didn't know it was you," Sigrun smiled. "And I've never been happier to see you in my whole life."

Jonna smiled, then her thoughts returned to Garbag. Her arm flailed out and struck the Orc upon the shoulder. He gave a loud grunt full of curses in his tongue, then awoke.

"We found my friend," Jonna said. "Now..."

"Now I'll lead you back across the river," Garbag interjected. "Then return to the Nightgate Inn on my own."

"What?" Jonna asked. "You're just gonna leave us like this?"

"I'm taking you back across the White River," Garbag repeated. "It's safer there than over there; also, once you're over the river, you can return to your own home easier." He grumbled. "But both of you are walking. My horse can't carry all three of us."

Sigrun and Jonna shared the last of the dried meat, then they divided their gear among themselves. All of it was thoroughly soaked, but it was better than nothing. Sigrun let Jonna keep her own sword, while she carried the iron sword she had taken from the Dunmer and Havi's enchanted sword. Then they got themselves onto their feet and went forward. Garbag rode before at a slow pace, while the two girls walked on behind: Jonna was slower than usual because of her cold and Sigrun understandably kept pace with her.

* * *

The morning passed on and they continued on their way westward. The sky was overcast with clouds, but these were lighter, threatened no rain, and caused this day to be much brighter than the last. There were no birds nor beasts to be seen in sky or dale: Garbag told them that it was because of the work that had been done in Eastmarch since the end of the Civil War almost seventeen years ago.

It was two hours until noon. They arrived at the banks of the White River, and here they were forced to wade through it again. Sigrun placed Jonna on the back of Garbag's horse, while she waded through on foot. The river was higher than the last time they had crossed, as the rain had caused it to swell almost to its fullest. Garbag's horse treaded water all the way through and Sigrun was swimming from one end to the other.

Both Eirik and Mjoll had learned about the White River; he from his time with the Companions and she from her many travels. This was the very river that Ysgramor's Five Hundred Companions took when they returned to Tamriel to seek vengeance upon the Snow Elves. According to the stories, the White River was at its fullest point during Ysgramor's time; deep enough that only a giant could wade across and keep his head above the water. Though it was not yet that deep today, it was indeed deeper than before and they had to work hard to keep from being swept southward and downstream by the current.

Once they crossed to the other side, Garbag carried Jonna off the horse and then assayed to leave.

"What?" Jonna coughed. "You're gonna leave us just like that?"

"I agreed to defend you while you looked for your friend," Garbag stated. "And you have now found her. My business with you ended this morning, but out of the goodness of my heart, I led you back across the river. You will be safer here than on the other side and will arrive in safer lands easier. I have done more than I was paid for, and haven't asked for further compensation; but I will now leave you and go about my business on my own. Farewell and be safe."

With that, Garbag spurred his horse and rode off northward upon the road. Jonna tried calling after him, but to no avail. She sighed, but it turned to a cough.

"Such a shame," Sigrun said. "He seemed to be a strong warrior, and a decent fellow nonetheless for his leaving us. I recall you were unwilling that we sought out Havi for our cause of saving Skyrim because he was an ass. But this Orc seemed to be of better stock. I'm surprised you didn't insist that he stayed with us."

"I would have," Jonna replied. "But I haven't the money to satisfy him, nor the strength for an argument, or a fight."

"If we meet him again," Sigrun stated. "Perhaps we can both persuade him."

"I don't think he would be willing to help," Jonna sighed. "He didn't seem to care much for the plight of our people when we spoke of it on our search for you."

"Then where shall we go?" Sigrun asked. "Back to Dawnstar to find Havi?"

"No, no, not yet," Jonna returned. "I have had some news. We're going back to Whiterun. It's closer and..." She sneezed. "...we'll be able to resupply."

"I can't argue with that," Sigrun answered. "Alright, Jons, lead the way."

* * *

For another hour or so they followed the road farther southward. The mountains on the right-hand side of the road were rather high and their summits covered with snow, but the lower flanks were more familiar. Trees they could see upon their sides, verdant pine trees that did not lose their needles; trees that had not been cut down by the work of the Dunmer. The sight pleased the two young women, for it seemed that even here, in this dreary land, made barren by the elves, some semblance of home remained. There was a noticeable spring in their steps as they went forward, yet Sigrun was still on the lookout: at least two of her captors were still alive and at large, and she feared to be ambushed by them in the woods, where one could be hidden from sight easier than in the barren land on the eastern side of the river.

It was about midday and they were still on the road, having encountered no enemies in their path. Yet as they were going forward, Sigrun became distinctly aware that they were being followed. Ever and anon, she would look over her shoulder back down the road, or across the river into the barren wasteland. There was no apparent sign of pursuit, whether near at hand or far away. Yet the feeling of pursuit did not leave Sigrun. Sometimes she would look right, where the sides of the mountain were covered in pine trees: if there was anyone following them from that side, they were skilled in wood-craft and flitted between the trees faster than Sigrun's eyes could catch them.

Ahead of them, they could see the road turning south and west, around a stony arm of the mountains. All this time, they had caught no sight of pursuit; but Sigrun was still wary and kept her eyes peeled this way and that. A loose stone slid from the cliffs above their head and came crashing down to the road at their left. Sigrun was sure now that they were being followed and, stepping out from the shelter of the cliff, drew out her sword.

"I know you're up there!" she shouted. "Come out, if you're not afraid of a fair fight!"

At that, there appeared a figure from behind the trees upon the cliff above them. The figure was clad in the green clothes of a hunter, a bow was in his hands and a shield upon his back. Were it not for the stranger's clothes, the women might have taken him for Havi: his face told that he was human and not an elf, and he had gray hair and a long gray beard.

"You ain't Dunmer," the stranger said as he noticed them. "Are you lost? There ain't many kins-folk traveling in Eastmarch as aren't lost, least-ways not free kins-folk, that is."

"We're not lost," Sigrun returned, relieved that it was neither Arvyn nor Doyvn; she still kept a firm grip on her sword. "We're on our way to Whiterun. Is this not the right road?"

"By an' by," the stranger stated. "I see you're kinswomen, Nord folk. Such a strange sight in Eastmarch these days. An' armed, no less! What business had you here?"

"Our business is our own," Sigrun replied. "All we want is to be on our way to Whiterun, without being followed."

"If Whiterun be your goal," the stranger said. "Then the road ain't gonna serve you. It goes further south, round about by an old fort, then climbs up the sides o' these mountains. You're better off cuttin' straight west from here. You'll find the road and save yourself quite a stretch."

"And why should we trust a strange man," Jonna asked. "Armed to the teeth, who follows two innocent travelers who've done nothing to deserve such treatment?"

"Look, kinswoman," the stranger said, relaxing the string of his bow but not fully lowering it. "I don't know your business, and you don't seem too keen on sharin' it. If that be what you want, then so be it. But these parts ain't safe for our kind, not anymore. I help those I find get safely out o' this land. I don't mean you no harm, but I followed you to see if you really were Nords."

"Still," Jonna argued. "The last person we trusted betrayed our trust. How do we know you won't lead us out into the woods to rob us? Or rape us? Or murder us? Or all three?"

"I don't rob from kins-folk," the stranger stated. "Only those as robbed our land from us. True, it's been many a year since I've had sight or smell of a beautiful woman; but I'd reckon strong drink is better still. Never betrayed me in all me long years. As for killin', I'd only raise my hand against kins-folk as try to kill me. An' seeing as how both of you are armed, perhaps I should be asking you the same question."

"I don't like him," Jonna whispered to Sigrun.

"You don't like anyone, Jons," Sigrun returned.

"Well, the last person we trusted kidnapped you," Jonna whispered. "So I have good reason not to like or trust anyone we may meet."

"Well?" the stranger asked. "What'll it be, kinswomen?"

"Our weapons are for defending ourselves," Sigrun said. "They won't be turned against you unless you give us reason to do so. As for your offer, I would have you first put down your bow and then come down from that cliff and onto the road."

"Only that, eh?" the stranger asked. "And why is that?"

"If you want us to trust you," Sigrun said. "You'll trust us first; trust us to not attack you, having put your life in our hands. You do that, and we'll be willing to trust you not to lead us into a trap."

The stranger chuckled. "I am an old man, and there are dangerous folk about..."

"Excuses!" Jonna shouted. "Climb down here or fuck off!"

"Easy, Jons," Sigrun whispered. "Well, stranger, those are my terms. Come down here, then we can talk."

The stranger grumbled, then lowered his bow, placed it in the quiver hidden beneath the shield on his back, and made the slow, careful crawl down the side of the cliff. About half-way down he leaped and they saw that he was rather spritely for his age. Furthermore, now that he was on the ground, their eyes discerned a few more particular details about the stranger. Firstly, he was not as old as he had appeared before; he had light hair that, by reason of graying, looked even older from afar. Any thought that this could be Havi were dismissed: there was nothing magical about this man, not even any enchanted jewelry. While Havi was bald, this man had long hair tied behind his head; and while Havi's beard was long and straight, this man's was tied into a knot just below the chin.

"There," the man said. "We are on equal footing, kinswomen. I have put me life in your hands. Do you trust me now?"

"No," Jonna stated.

"Not yet," Sigrun clarified. "Since we've shown that we're no bandits and mean you no harm, perhaps you can tell us who you are and how many others are with you."

"I am alone," the man began. "I live in a cave in the middle of a lake not too far from here. My name is Roggi Knot-Beard, an' I am formerly of the township of Kynesgrove. There, now I have entrusted you with more than I would any dark elf I might meet. Now I ask that you make a decision about me: will you go with me or no? I would choose swiftly if I were you, as we're out in the open and most eyes hereabouts are not friendly."

"No, we don't trust you," Jonna returned. "Who is to say all of this is true and not just some clever story? You could be waiting for us to foolishly believe you, then you'd lead us into the forest and rob us there."

"I told you, I don't rob kins-folk!" Roggi returned, sounding a bit annoyed at Jonna's mistrust.

"Wait," Sigrun interjected. "You said you would lead us down a shortcut to the main road. If you don't intend to rob or kill us, what price would you demand for your services?"

"No price," Roggi stated. "I get me food from the wilderness, an' what I can't get there I steal from the Dunmer that cross my path."

"Then why would you offer to help us?" Sigrun asked. "As you said, these parts are filled with dangerous folk."

"Truly," Roggi nodded. "But as I also said, I help kins-folk as get lost hereabouts. Whether you be lost or no, cuttin' a few dangerous miles off'n your journey is a good bet, ain't it?" While he was talking, Roggi took stock of the women in their filthy, bedraggled state: their clothes had dried upon their bodies as they walked, Jonna was still rather sick, and they both looked famished.

"Listen here," he said. "You look like you've seen better days. There's food, clean water, an' warm beds to sleep in at my cave. I know it's not the best accommodations, especially with an older man, but they'd be safer than the road."

"Aha!" Jonna retorted, then let out a mighty sneeze. "You are trying to trick us!"

"We are low on our supplies," Sigrun whispered. "If push comes to shove, then we can kill him and take his supplies for ourselves." She then turned back to Roggi. "Alright, lead us to your cave. But no tricks, or we _will_ turn on you. Is that understood?"

"Clear as day," Roggi returned.

"Lead on, then."

* * *

They left the road in short order, Roggi in front with Sigrun and Jonna following on behind. Sigrun kept her sword out; though she was more trusting than Jonna, after having been betrayed and kidnapped by Arvyn Hlas, she was more than a little wary. From the road, their path went north and a little west, always going up the sides of the mountain. On either side were many trees, but there was nothing behind these trees to threaten them.

Another two hours passed, the sun had left its noon zenith and was on its way towards the tops of the mountains in the west. Here the air was clear and a hint of snow wafted down from the higher reaches. Sigrun smiled and breathed deeply: despite the threat of danger, it made her feel good inside to smell the cool, clear mountain air. Jonna herself made a few snuffling attempts to breathe the air. They passed into a clearing in the woods, with a short cliff directly to the north. The ground was cold and firm, and farther up there was snow clinging stubbornly to the ground. In the middle of that clearing, just below the snow, was a wide lake with a tiny island in the midst thereof.

"There it is," Roggi said. "Mara's Eye. Travelers called it a pond, though it is actually a lake. Some thirty years ago, travelers stopped goin' thereabouts. Now nobody lives there but me."

Roggi then led them to a nearby cluster of trees, where he had hidden a small boat beneath several branches. Without asking for their help, he dragged the boat over to the water's edge and then invited them to climb aboard. Warily they entered the boat, which Roggi then rowed across the still surface of the lake to the little island. Once there, they disembarked from the boat one by one, and Roggi dragged it onto the islet and secured it to the trunk of a nearby tree. He then led them to a small group of stones, and in the middle of them he pulled aside several branches to reveal a wooden door, which he opened: behind the door was a ladder that led down into the darkness of a cave.

"I'll go down first," he said. "That way, if you don't trust me, you can climb back up."

Roggi went down first, then came Sigrun: she did not sheathe her sword, but held onto the grip with one hand while she climbed with the other. Jonna was the last one down and did not close the door behind her.

At the bottom of the stairs was a wide room, illuminated by a lantern which Roggi had just now lit. In its light, they saw that the floor was mostly rock, though there were several wooden platforms built off that rock around it; the roof was supported by two thick stalagtite pillars. There was an endless dripping of water down in the darkness beyond their sight.

"Welcome to Mara's Eye Den," Roggi stated. "Long ago, this was used by smugglers; sort of a resting place between Riften and the other holds o' Skyrim. Then, about thirty year ago, they stopped comin' here. Word that reached Kynesgrove said that the place was haunted. When I came out here, I found it empty and useful."

"You live here?" Sigrun asked.

"When I'm not huntin'," Roggi stated. "But please, there's no cause to have your weapons drawn. I'd not be botherin' with hospitality if it were me purpose to slay you." He produced some bread from a barrel and handed it to Sigrun. Jonna took the bread, but did not eat it. He then went about his business lighting candles and pulling out food from the many barrels and crates that were stacked and laid about the cavern.

"Eat up," Roggi said. "It's not much, but I can't spare more. Some o' this food has to last me, the rest for those who come here."

"You said you were alone," Sigrun noted.

"And I am," Roggi returned. "But sometimes those I meet and escort back to free Skyrim had lost their supplies, like yourselves, or the hour is late when I find 'em and I ain't a'mind to lead them across the border at night." He turned to his guests and saw them still standing there, with Sigrun's sword still in her hand.

"Well?" he asked. "I've welcomed you into me home and given you food from out o' me larders. Ain't you gonna trust me now?"

"Maybe," Sigrun replied. Roggi dragged a chair from one of the tables in the cave over to where they were and offered it to them, as he went back for another. They did not accept the chair, but sat against a barrel near the foot of the ladder. Roggi went for a bottle of mead, then came back and sat in the chair. Jonna and Sigrun shared first the loaf they had been given, but ate it slowly and eyed Roggi warily.

"So you're from Kynesgrove, is that it?" Sigrun asked. "Where's that?"

"A few mile east o' here," Roggi stated. "On the other side of the White River. Least-ways, that's where it was."

"Was?" Sigrun inquired.

"It was destroyed when the dark elves took over Eastmarch seventeen year ago," Roggi ruefully stated. "Don't make no sense. We welcomed strangers of old: I meself had nothin' against the dark elves once upon a time."

"How about now?"

"They burned Kynesgrove," Roggi said in a low, grim voice. "Slew kins-folk, honest folk, people I'd known for years. But that didn't stop them none. They kept on burnin', killin', and dredgin'. Within seventeen year, most o' Eastmarch ain't look nothin' like it did of old time."

"Why do they do it?" Sigrun asked. "Why do the Dunmer burn and destroy everything in this land?"

"To make it like their native Morrowind," Roggi answered.

"But why can't they just return to their native land?" Jonna, who had been quiet most of the time, spoke up. Her heart was already cheered by reason of the food, though she was still wary of Roggi.

"Don't want to," Roggi stated. "Though they left the Empire, the Dunmer still living in the Imperial Provinces are permitted to live according to their own traditions. It seems they think it easier to remain where they be rather than return to a home they would have to suffer the trouble of rebuilding it."

"That's terrible!" Sigrun replied.

"Sure it is," Roggi sighed. "But ain't nobody doin' a thing about it. Riften was safe for kins-folk, thanks to the Sons of Skyrim, but their presence is diminished o' late, thanks to Jarl Hemming Black-Briar."

"You know of the Sons of Skyrim?" Sigrun asked.

"Oh, aye," Roggi nodded. "Even met their firstborn once upon a time, Eirik I think his name was. Saw him slay a dragon with me own two eyes. An' I _know_ it wasn't on account of drink, because I had been too damn sober, on account o' me tab at the Braidwood Inn."

Sigrun smiled, but it quickly faded when Jonna jabbed her in the ribs with her elbow.

"I'd join his band if I could," Roggi muttered.

"Why haven't you?" Sigrun asked.

"I've had a hard time hereabouts," Roggi stated. "When the dark elves started destroyin' everything, I fled for me life. Shameful, I know, but I had lost a precious family artifact an' I had a good idea where it might be found." He turned towards the shield that was now lying by a bed-roll on one side of the cave, along with an axe, the bow, and a quiver of arrows.

"Once I found it," Roggi continued. "I ventured back out into the world, an' found it all changed. When I was found, they hunted me, the dark elves: wanted to make a slave o' me. But they never caught me. I fled west an' found meself this cave, an' I've lived here ever since. Taught meself to hunt food, an' I shepherd folk back across the border as cross it."

"And you've been doing this for seventeen years?" Sigrun asked.

"That's the truth of it," Roggi stated. "It's thank-less work, and I've had more than a few folk as tried to rob me, even _after_ I gave 'em help. But someone has to take care o' kins-folk out here. The Empire damn well ain't doin' it. Shor's balls, they've practically given Eastmarch to the dark elves while they suck the cocks o' the high elves." Roggi drank from his bottle, then opened a small barrel and offered them a small hunk of cheese and strips of salted meat.

Sigrun thanked him for the food, which she shared with Jonna, then asked: "How many people have you saved?"

"Quite a few, actually," Roggi replied. "The first one was an old priest o' Ysmir, or as the Imperials called him a'fore they bowed down to the elves, Talos. He was the one as convinced me to not just stay in my cave, but to protect those I found and lead them back across the border to safety."

"Ysmir," Sigrun noted. She remembered that her father had been called Ysmir by the Greybeards. "You said Ysmir, not Talos?"

"Same thing," Roggi returned. "The old priest stayed with me many a day a'fore he decided to leave. It was he as also told me about things that happened outside o' Kynesgrove. How the Empire had betrayed us to the Thalmor and sold out Eastmarch to the dark elves. It was he as shared the truth with me."

"The truth?" Sigrun asked. "What truth is that?"

"The old truth," Roggi said in a whispering voice. He then scooted closer to the women, as though he would share with them a great secret. Jonna backed away, but Sigrun remained in place.

"Long ago, a'fore the time o' empires an' moots," Roggi began. "The Nord people worshiped the Divines according to the way their Atmoran ancestors did: by the names their ancestors knew 'em by. Kyne you've heard of, what they call Kynareth. Stuhn an' Tsun instead o' Stendarr an' Zenithar, an' Jhunal instead o' Julianos. Dibella an' Mara we knew as the names they're called now. Then there was the hidden gods, ones whose worship was forbidden in the time when Skyrim was taken into the Empire: the World-Eater, the Fox, Ysmir, and Shor, the creator of man."

"And you worship these gods?" Sigrun asked.

"They was the gods I'd known as a child," Roggi returned. "Now I know 'em by their _right_ names, thanks to that old priest. He told me, 'The Empire has abandoned us, therefore we should abandon the elvish names of gods we've worshiped generations before there was ever any Empire.'"

Sigrun nodded, but did not respond.

"Well," sighed Roggi. "It's a morning's journey from here to Whiterun, assuming nothin' bad happens. Too late to start now, so you may stay here if you want. There's warm blankets an' the water down there is good an' clean. I'll sort out some food for your supplies: stuff that'll last an' keep you on your feet."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Sigrun stated. Jonna was lying against her shoulder: during the talk of the old names of the Divines, she had fallen asleep.

"Your friend ain't lookin' good," Roggi pointed out. "Now I'm no healer, but I have some stuff as have helped me when I feel sick on me own. Let me help at least in this ways, an' prove meself to you."

Sigrun sighed. "Alright. But you have to taste anything you offer her first; that way I'll know whether you're trying to poison us."

Roggi chuckled, then went over to where a large pot had been simmering over a hidden bed of coals. He then appeared with a wooden bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. Within said bowl was a hearty soup of a dull, slightly yellowish color. Sigrun knew it from the smell: her mother made a stew of the remnants of the meat of chicken and several herbs that grew in the little garden that cured almost any ailment she had suffered. Nevertheless, she had Roggi taste the soup before offering any to Jonna. After a minute passed and no abnormal signs appeared, she gently roused Jonna awake and gave her the soup. Roggi seemed to guess that they wanted to be alone and so let them be, while Sigrun and Jonna talked about what had happened.

"Jons, I'm surprised to hear you did this," Sigrun stated. "I mean, I hoped that you would come looking for me. But I didn't think you would be so afraid. I'd have thought you'd single-handedly take on all of Skyrim to find me."

"I don't know where I was at that time," Jonna sighed. "You were in danger and that was all that I could think about. I guess I became more thoughtful since you were away: you seem to do quite a bit of thinking, and without you, I felt that I had to do some thinking myself. I'm sorry that it crippled me." She smiled.

"What?" Sigrun asked.

"You, Sig," Jonna stated. "You were reluctant to go on our little adventure, as I recall. And yet you slew...how many dark elves was it?"

"Seven," Sigrun replied.

"All on your own!" Jonna exclaimed. "I didn't know you were so savage, scalping that one elf. And what you said: 'I'm sending you to your dead gods.' That's some cold shit to say to a bastard you're about to kill."

"Well, they called on the Tribunal, and not the new one," Sigrun stated. "Ma told me about the legends of the Nerevarine that she had heard in her travels in mainland Morrowind. Two of them were killed for sure, and the third no one knew for certain."

"True, true," Jonna nodded. "Still, you always seemed quiet and reserved, and yet you plowed through seven slavers like they were nothing but a few filthy skeevers!"

"I guess I became more aggressive since you were away," Sigrun shrugged. "You're always so brave and ready to fight, and without you, I felt that there wasn't going to be anyone else to save me except myself."

"Well, then," Jonna said after a loud sneeze. "I don't think we should be separated again. If we do, I'll be paralyzed by over-thinking and you'll kill half of Skyrim. Born of the storm indeed! Your da was Dragonborn, before long, we'll be calling you Sigrun Stormborn!"

Sigrun smiled as she laughed. "You're too kind, Jons."

They talked thus for a while, until Jonna had finished the soup. Then, feeling rather drowsy, she fell asleep against Sigrun's shoulder. While she was thus sleeping, Sigrun made a soft 'pst' sound, and Roggi made his way back to where they were sitting.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked.

"Let me ask you a question," Sigrun said. "If there was a way to ensure that no one would harass or enslave folk in these parts, what would you say to that?"

Roggi scoffed. "I'd say the only way that'd happen would be to take New Gnisis back from the dark elves an' make it Windhelm again. It'd take at least a generation to un-fuck what they did to the hold, but it'd be nothin' short a miracle."

"What if that were possible?" Sigrun asked. At the present, it wasn't even likely. There was certainly no hope that two, or even three, could overcome the Dunmer of Eastmarch.

"It would be a godsend," Roggi said with a smile. "I've come to care for the kins-folk I've met in me watch, but me one true love is the juice o' the wheat an' barley."

Sigrun smiled in return. "Jonna would have liked you in happier times. Might even have challenged you to a drinking game."

"And I'd have taken her up on that offer," Roggi returned. He sighed grimly. "But there ain't no sense in hopin'. Tis a lost cause, lass; savin' Eastmarch."

"Why do you say that?" Sigrun asked.

"To save it," Roggi stated. "Would take an army. But from what I've heard, this new Emperor don't take kindly to us Nords. Stripped us o' our weapons, places new laws every damn day, restrictin' the freedom o' honest kins-folk: chains alone we lack to complete our slavery! There ain't much more freedom in the west than out here in the east."

"But what if we could raise an army?" Sigrun asked.

"Why, you in the market for war?" Roggi returned. "In that case, you'd need a lot more experience than you have, I'd say. The Civil War sapped everyone's will to fight, so it'll take more than what you've got to convince kinsmen to fight and die for you."

"I don't expect people to fight for me," Sigrun said. "I would hope that they would want to fight for a free Skyrim. A land where they aren't hanged upon the city-walls for petty crimes or live in fear of being enslaved."

"And I'd be the first to sign up for that," Roggi stated. "Any world where I can put down me bow an' axe and pick up a flagon to drink in time o' peace is a world worth fightin' for. But what are you, lass, alone, nameless, and without honors, hmm? Who'd fight for you in such a state as y'are now?"

"Jonna would fight for me," Sigrun stated. "She's as close to me as a sister. And I'm not without any feats of my own: I slew seven Dunmer slavers in the midst of a storm last night."

"Seven?" Roggi asked. "A fine start for a warrior, an' a shield-maiden. Though I see you ain't got no shield. You should look into gettin' yourself one: if you make protectin' Skyrim your goal, it'd make a good symbol to bear a shield."

"I'll see about getting a shield, then," Sigrun replied.

"Perhaps one day," Roggi said. "If I'm not killed a'fore then, I'll join you. Perhaps then you'll be at the head of an army an' we'll drive out the Dunmer from Eastmarch together. But for now, we must rest. In the mornin', I'll lead you an' your friend through the shortcut to the road."

Sigrun nodded, but did not immediately fall asleep. The memory of her captors was still fresh in her mind, and though Roggi was not a Dunmer, she was still wary. She wondered if she would ever look upon a man who was not her father without fear. At length, her eyes became too heavy to prop up and she fell into a sound, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **(AN: Lots of stuff mentioned in this chapter. But have they found themselves a new ally, or at least a potential one? And what will happen once they return to Whiterun?)**

 **(Last year, I hadn't played Skyrim since January, as I stopped to look for work and had no strength to play from February onward [because you know]. But then in December i started playing again. And i replayed where the Greybeards speak to you, and afterwards i asked Arngeir what they said: they do indeed call the Dragonborn 'Ysmir'. Not sure if it has to do with the over-soul thing [which might give you a hint as to the outcome of this story], or with the concept of 'mantling', which sounds like a poor excuse for retroactive continuity. But in retrospect, it does make sense that Eirik would be referred to as 'Ysmir', even when Crixus called him the 'Wulfharth' to his 'Tiber Septim.')  
**

 **(About mantling, it seems ridiculous that one could change set events and people of the past: after all, the daedra and Divines may not live in linear time, but mortals certainly do. And why does Kirkbride have an obsession with walking? Walk-About, Brass-Walk, sideways movements, and 'walk like you'. But, if you believe such nonsense, then it is quite likely that Tiber Septim was not as bad as people said he was, and only became so because Crixus, as both his descendant, 'heir' and a kind of anti-Shezzarine, 'mantled' him, thus giving Tiber Septim the negative aspects. Once again, that gives away plenty of hints at what may or will happen further down the line)**


	11. Sundered

**(AN: So in the last chapter, i finally got some semblance of what Sigrun needs to do in order to have people follow her. But, of course, we also need to go to the Reach as well and see that for herself. When that will happen, however, is another tale. For now, one of many consequences of Jonna's decision must come to pass. I know the impatient, demanding, critics of today want to know everything now and have magic fix everything for them, but doing so will bring dire consequences. In a magical world, just like in the real world, all things are linked and one small choice can have long-lasting and unforeseen affects.)**

 **(Furthermore, two more subplots will be revealed in this chapter. Pay attention, because one of them will be made apparent very soon.)**

* * *

 **Sundered**

Sigrun awoke after a long, unbroken sleep. She found that she was exactly where she had fallen asleep: with her back against the cave wall, the stairs to her left and Jonna lying against her shoulder. A quick search of her person found that nothing had been taken: even her clothes had not been torn or soiled. Quietly she breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps Roggi was not duplicitous after all. Looking around the cave, she saw that it was mostly dark, save for a few candles which Roggi was now lighting. Gently she roused Jonna from her sleep, then got herself up to her feet.

"Good morning, lass," Roggi said, noticing her awake and alert. "All ready for today's march, are we?"

"Yes, indeed," she replied. "If there's time for breakfast. I'm starving."

"Thankfully, I've been up a'fore you were," Roggi stated. "Huntin' food. There's a pair o' coneys on the spit, already skinned an' roasted. The food I've given ye is in the bag by your feet." Sigrun looked down and noticed two such bags: one for her and one for Jonna.

"What about you?" Sigrun asked.

"Oh, I've already et," Roggi dismissed. "I'll be fine. Now eat up, both o' ye. We gotta fine walk ahead o' us, an' the sooner we start out, the sooner you'll be safely o'er the border."

Jonna eventually came around; she was feeling a bit better, which pleased Sigrun greatly. She told her in brief how they had slept without incident, and after seeing the food and eating some of the rabbit, Jonna's misgivings about Roggi seemed to subside. That is not to say, however, that she wasn't still wary of him.

"All night and he didn't lay a hand on either of us?" Jonna asked. "Must be an odd one, he."

"How do you mean?"

"Like a sorcerer, Sig," Jonna replied. "Always hear strange tales about what spell-casters do in their caves and hovels out in the wilderness."

"Remember, my brother is an apprentice mage himself," Sigrun stated.

"Still," Jonna shook her head. "I'm not sure about this man."

Once they had eaten, they addressed themselves for their journey. After Roggi had sealed away the food and put out the candles, he led the women back up the ladder and onto the islet. He closed the door, locked it, stowing the key beneath his tunic, then covered the door with branches. Then they got into the little boat and rowed back across the lake. Once they reached the other side, Roggi brought the boat ashore and hid it among some branches. Then they struck out south and a little west, following Roggi's lead. For a while, it seemed to the young women that they were going back the way they had come.

"I thought we were going west, not south," Sigrun stated. "Won't we see the cliffs soon?"

"We gotta go outta the ways a pace," Roggi replied. "Gallows Rock is nearby. Haunted, some say that place is: a werewolf died in that there fort many year ago. An' anything as can kill a werewolf ain't to be fucked with."

Sigrun had heard tale of her father fighting werewolf hunters in this very places. Nothing supernatural about it, but she knew that was years ago; before she was even born. Why should it still be a point of fear?

"But you said it was many years ago," Sigrun reasoned. "Surely whatever lived there must be dead by now."

"Maybe," Roggi stated. "But lately, foul folk have been spotted in that there fort. The Sisters o' Strife, for one."

"I remember them," Jonna spoke up. "We encountered them on the road to Whiterun. Bandits, I believe."

"Not merely bandits," Roggi returned. "All women bandits, such as kill any men they encounter: man, mer, beast-folk, don't matter to the Sisters. I've had a run-in or two o' me own. Several time they accepted me hospitality, only to try an' kill me for it. So far, I've been clever enough to evade capture, kill them as try an' kill me. But if they find out where I live, it'll bode ill for me."

"Is that why you led us this far south?" Sigrun asked.

"Aye, lass," Roggi nodded. "But tis only a short distance. We'll be on the right path by an' by."

* * *

The three of them moved quickly between the trees, led by the skill of Roggi. Their pace remained steady and they seemed to be making good time: the morning was still high, though all about them seemed the same, just a mighty wood of pines and ironwood trees. But though all was green dark brown and little else could be seen, they realized that they were steadily going downward. Any thought that they might have gone amiss did not endure long: at the bottom of the hill they were going, they found a small clearing, in which a small pond lay glistening in the morning light. On the northwestern edge of the pond was a tall cliff, and at the bottom of said cliff was what had once been a shrine. It was weathered and old, and there seemed to be many cuts and gashes upon the stone dais. The icon was gone, but a cross-like dagger had been carved into the stone in the center thereof.

"A shrine to Ysmir," Roggi said. "Who was once called Talos. Let us pause for a moment an' remember the defender o' man. For it be in his name that we do our part to defend Skyrim, great or small."

Jonna and Roggi knelt before the shrine. Sigrun, meanwhile, looked at the shrine and passed her hand upon it. Ysmir was such a strange thing to her: some said it was Talos, others Wulfharth the Undying, and even her father. Which one would she bow before, then? Each was a hero of her people, a line of the Nord race going back to the beginning: the culmination of all that they were, all that they are, and all that they could be. She wondered if her father knew, that he was the incarnate of an old Nordic god, and how he felt about that. Surely she felt small, almost insignificant in comparison: and yet it was her goal to make something of herself, to not merely claim to be descended from the Dragonborn, but to have a legend of her own that men and women would fear and respect.

At length, she knelt beside the dais, with her hand upon the stone and whispered:

"Ancestors, guide my path. Let me save this our homeland, or wait for my arrival at the gates of Sovngarde."

Having said their peace, they betook themselves once again to their journey. From the pond, they began to go almost directly west. The land sloped up, and then began to descend steeply. The loud, endless rushing of water could be heard before them: Roggi urged them onward, for he said that they were nearing the Valtheim Falls, and the border of Whiterun. Down the slope they practically ran, the roaring water growing nearer and louder with each step. At last the trees grew sparse and they came to the banks of a river. It was wide, but not very deep, and there were rocks here and there, at what appeared to be a shallow ford: however, the water flowed swiftly around the rocks.

"This is the White River," Roggi stated. "The main road takes you a mile or two southward. A long stretch o' the legs spared this way."

"Can we cross the river?" Sigrun asked.

"Should be fine," Roggi mused. "Crossed it a'fore meself, when it was fuller."

Roggi tied a rope to an arrow, and then fired it into the trunk of a tree on the far side. The other end he secured to a tree on this side. With this, they then set themselves to crossing the river. The water was icy cold and flowed up to their knees, passing swiftly around them. The rocks were slippery and could not be trusted to hold them. In this slow fashion, they crossed the White River. They were about half-way to the far shore when five figures stepped out from behind the trees. Like Roggi, they were clad in green clothes, so as to hide themselves in the woods. Like him, they were also armed; some with bows, some with axes, others with swords. These, however, were all women.

"Well well well," sneered one of the women: she was tall, her head was completely shorn of hair, and her face bore ritualistic scars. "What do we have here, sisters?"

"It's a trap!" Jonna hissed. "That bastard sold us out!"

"They ain't none o' mine," Roggi replied.

"Is it the Sisters of Strife?" Sigrun asked.

"That we are, sister," the bald woman said. "And you'd be wise to stay out of our way and hand that wrinkled old man to us. We have no quarry with you, only with him."

"Why?" Sigrun asked. "What has he done?"

The bald woman laughed. "You're really in no condition to be asking questions, sister. That current is pretty strong: why don't we see how well you can swim against it?"

"Cowards!" Roggi shouted. "You'd rather kill me than risk a fair fight! What, are ye afraid I'd beat yer ass?"

The bald woman laughed again. "Ah, the frail ego of men. To think you would even be a challenge for us!"

"He's right," Jonna interjected. "We've met your kind before, you 'Sisters of Strife.' Cowards, the lot of you! All talk and no fight. You wouldn't raise your hand against another woman."

"That's where you're wrong, sister," the bald woman stated. She drew her sword and in one swift motion, cut the rope from off the arrow. The current suddenly surged beneath their feet. Roggi and Sigrun barely managed to keep themselves afoot, but Jonna was swept off her feet. Roggi drew his bow and sent an arrow at the bald woman: she ducked and it struck one of her fellow bandits in the throat. Another one leaped into the river after Jonna, but Sigrun drew out her sword and thrust it into the bandit's chest.

"Sigrun!" Jonna cried out. Turning, she saw the shorter woman pinned against a rough rock, to which she was clinging on against the current for dear life.

"Disperse!" the bald woman shouted. "Fall back, sisters! We found Sigrun!"

"Number One will be pleased," another cheered.

Sigrun carefully walked downstream, following the current, and gave Jonna her hand. As she was helping her up to the shore, they saw Roggi now on the other side, bow in hand, chasing down the Sisters of Strife as they vanished almost as soon as they had appeared. As the two came splashing up onto the bank, Roggi drove his axe into the throat of the bandit, putting her out of her misery.

"Shor's balls!" Roggi exclaimed. "I've never let 'em get away a'fore!"

"We were in the river," Sigrun stated. "And they were on land. There wasn't much we could do about it."

"But what about you, lass?" Roggi asked. "You two have been a'feared o' me, but they left as soon as they heard your name, Sigrun. Almost like they was expectin' you."

"I've never told them my name," Sigrun replied. "I don't know these Sisters of Strife."

"Oh, is that a fact?" Roggi returned. "They just happen to know your name? Didn't you say you'd met them a'fore, Jonna?"

"We did," Jonna said. "But we never told them our names. How they learned them is anyone's guess."

"Yeah?" Roggi asked. "Well, as it turns out, it seems you two is stuck with me for a bit longer."

"Why?" Jonna returned.

"The other three got away," Roggi stated. "I've never let these Sisters get away if they try an' kill me. Now they have, and they'll likely follow me back to me hideaway. I'll have to go with ye as far as Whiterun, let 'em lose me trail." Jonna swore. "I don't like it none either."

"I think that's a load of bullshit," Jonna stated. "You're so clever with wood-craft, as you say, why can't you just lose them?"

"They called for her by name," Roggi replied, pointing to Sigrun. "They'll be followin' us for sure. I can't risk lettin' 'em know where I stay."

"You can come with us," Sigrun said.

"I think this is just some sort of elaborate ruse," Jonna replied. "You just want to go to Whiterun for the beer, then get us good and drunk and fuck with both of us!"

"Well, in the first part, you may be right," Roggi stated with a grin. "Whiterun may not have the finest beer in all o' Skyrim, but it ain't nothin' to sneeze at. As for the second part, didn't Sigrun tell you?"

"She did," Jonna replied. "But I don't believe it."

"Don't believe me, then," Roggi said. "Believe Sigrun. Or don't believe either o' us: your word don't make what I said untrue."

They continued on the other side of the river. But as they were going, Sigrun whispered: "Jons, what's the problem? I told you he didn't touch either of us."

"Just because he didn't do anything last night," Jonna returned. "Doesn't mean he won't try anything again." She was still wary after their encounter with the Sisters of Strife, which did nothing to assuage her doubts about Roggi.

"If you keep this up," Sigrun stated. "We'll be saving Skyrim all by ourselves."

"Fine by me," Jonna retorted. "We don't need anybody else."

"That's where you're wrong," Sigrun added.

Jonna snorted, but made no audible reply. The three of them carried on their path, which was roughly uphill towards the road. They remained silent, each of them lost in their own separate thoughts. But for each of them, their encounter with the Sisters of Strife returned to mind. Roggi was unsure about these women, more of them than Jonna was of him; he was worried that they had deceived him and were with the Sisters. If he could keep them in his eyes and make sure they didn't try to leave to tell their friends about his cave, he hoped that he could be safer. As for the ladies, both of them were going over in their minds their first encounter with the Sisters, while escorting Sori and Dag. None of them seemed to have recalled a moment when any of them let slip Sigrun's given name, and they couldn't recall where they could have met one of them before in their lives.

In no time at all, they reached the road, and began to make their winding way up the side of the mountain towards the Valtheim Towers. For good or ill, the women discovered that the leading of Roggi Knot-Beard had been to their benefit: they had traveled quickly over much ground, most of it uphill as well. By noon, they came to the top of the mountain and saw the Valtheim Towers, standing one on each side of the White River. The ladies both let out a pleased sigh and did not spare a single look behind their backs: they had left Eastmarch and returned to Whiterun.

* * *

Now things were not so dire as before, so now they went on roughly at a slower pace. To their left the Throat of the World rose to an impossible height. Before them the golden roofs of Whiterun glistened of gold in the light of the noonday sun, and to the north the mountains were still covered in snow. All seemed bright and clean, especially after the rain and darkness in the lower valley. Sigrun and Jonna spent many a quiet minutes merely breathing the cool, clean air. There was a thick scent of fire and death in the air of Eastmarch, and to breathe the open air again was like water upon a wilted leaf.

"Aye!" Roggi commented after many long minutes of silence, broken only by deep, full breaths. "Tis good to breathe freely again. But what will we do next?"

"You said it yourself," Jonna stated, her first words that were not distrustful of Roggi. "We're going to Whiterun."

"But I thought we were going to Dawnstar," Sigrun interjected. "Remember Havi and his sword?"

"I haven't forgotten it," Jonna chuckled, patting her thigh where it was tied to her belt. "But we can go there once we've stopped at Whiterun first."

"Wait a moment, not so fast," Sigrun interjected. "Roggi, you said you were afraid that we might be followed by this Sisterhood of Strife, or whatever they're called. And if they are following us, then they must have heard your resolve to come to Whiterun. Will they not follow us there and wait for us to leave, then track you on your way back? Jons and I have been north before, we can lose them in the Pale, and then after we've delivered Havi's sword, we can return to Whiterun once it's safe."

"No!" Jonna said insistently. "We're going to Whiterun first or we're going nowhere, and that's that."

"Well, okay!" Sigrun said, taken aback by Jonna's sharp reply. "But don't you remember how we were treated there? Why would you want to go back there?"

"The beer," Roggi interjected.

"Shut up!" Jonna snapped, turning quickly to Roggi. She then turned back to Sigrun, lowered her head and, after a brief pause, spoke aloud. "Sig, I...I want to go there because I think my father is there."

Sigrun blinked in surprise. "Your father? Jons, Eirik is your father."

"I mean my _real_ father," Jonna replied. "While we were parted, I learned that my father, my real father, could be found in Whiterun. I think his name is Idolaf Battle-Born or something."

Sigrun's eyes were large with surprise and quiet worry. "Jons, you know what kind of person Idolaf is! Remember all those stories our father told us? Eirik may not have been your birth-father, but he raised you with Lucia, Bjorn and I, reared you in our home, treated you like another daughter!"

"Yes, I know all the stories that _your_ father told," Jonna replied: there was something unwholesome in the way she called him 'your father.' "And I am grateful for raising me; truly, the only one who did more for me than him was my own mother. But all those stories, all the things your father said he did? Who's to say those things actually happened? What if your da merely exaggerated what he did because they disagreed on the matter of the Civil War?"

"Are you calling my father a liar?" Sigrun asked, anger burning in her breast for the one person she never thought she'd be truly angry at in her entire life.

"No, never!" Jonna retorted, shocked suddenly at the truth of her own words brought so bluntly back to her. "But, like he himself said in those stories, your da wasn't perfect. He made poor decisions, he got drunk and did crazy things, he despaired. By his own words, he wasn't perfect; it is perfectly reasonable to assume that he hid the whole truth of what went on between himself and my father."

"You just called my father a liar again!" Sigrun said.

"Dammit, Sig, what do you want me to say?"

"The truth, Jons! Why do you want to go looking for Idolaf Battle-Born?"

"You wouldn't understand," Jonna sneered.

"And why not?" Sigrun sympathetically asked.

"Because you have a father!" Jonna shouted. "A real father! And a name that you carry with you for the rest of your life! That's all that I want! I thought that you, dearest sis, could understand that!"

"I do understand..."

"You don't!" quoth Jonna angrily. "All you care about is home and Lucia! She's your sister, isn't she?"

"You both are!" Sigrun replied, her heart breaking at Jonna's fierce words. But she willed the springs in her head to assuage the flood of tears now filling to the brim. "I wouldn't have come on this trip with you if I didn't care about you..."

"And yet you don't want me to meet my real father, is that it?" Jonna asked. "You have your father, but I can't have mine?"

"Now, excuse me, lasses," Roggi interjected. "If I may..."

"Shut up!" both Sigrun and Jonna cried as one.

"I have a solution for this here problem," Roggi continued. "Let's first go to Whiterun an' sample the ale there, eh? That way, you, Sigrun, can show as you care for Jonna's search for her da, an' you, Jonna, can see as Sigrun ain't too proud. How's about that, eh?"

"Roggi..." Sigrun started.

"Done!" Jonna retorted. "Sigrun can prove her trust in me by accompanying me to meet my real father." Jonna then went on her way down the road heading westward. At the rear, Sigrun approached Roggi and whispered into his ear.

"How was that any business of yours, old man?" she whispered.

"I ain't that old, now," Roggi stated.

"Don't be a fool!" Sigrun retorted. "This is a family matter, and you're not family."

"Not yet, at least," Roggi shrugged, which earned him a blow to the shoulder from Sigrun. "A man can be sworn as a blood-brother, can't he? Still, y'all ain't too bad, you lot. I heard you yourself mention Eirik as your father: suppose it's too much to hope as him bein' the same Eirik as slew a dragon all them year ago. Still, if he's the same as leads the Sons o' Skyrim, I'd be welcome to be sworn in as one o'them. And surely Jonna's da ain't worse neither."

"I take it you never left Kynesgrove," Sigrun said. "I've heard stories about this Idolaf Battle-Born, all bad."

"At least give 'im the benefit o' the doubt," Roggi returned. "For Jonna's sake?"

"I don't and I won't," Sigrun stated. "A drunken oathbreaker, long on talk, who corrupted the Companions, does not seem like a good person to me."

"We'll know soon enough, I trow," said Roggi.

The walk back to Whiterun was quiet and solemn. No one spoke a word to anyone else in the little group. The closer they came within sight of the walls of Whiterun, the sight and smell of hanging bodies made them all quite grim. However, Sigrun noticed that Roggi was now no longer trailing behind but was now up at the front talking to Jonna. Apparently his little arbitration stunt had made him a little less threatening to Jonna, who found it easier talking to him. At the back, Sigrun was shaking her head: she could see it, though Jonna was occupied with her need to find a father that she already had, and it made her wonder if she had been too hesitant in trusting this strange man from the woods in the first place.

But what was more pressing on her heart was Jonna's behavior towards her. It was true that Lucia and home were always on her mind, though she hadn't intimated such to Jonna during their travels. She had always felt that she had enough love in her heart for both of them, just as much as she had for both her mother and father, and enough to spare for Bjorn. Why was it, then, that Jonna seemed to be angry about that, and urging her to make a decision? What had happened since their separation in Winterhold that had caused her to behave this way?

* * *

At last they arrived at the gates of Whiterun. Jonna asked the guards about Idolaf Battle-Born, and after they had relieved them of their weapons (much to Roggi's dismay and disapproval), they directed her to Dragonsreach in the Cloud District. Up the hill they silently went, passed the Bannered Mare where they had their fight almost a week ago. Sigrun had no desire to stay there if it could be helped, as she guessed that they would be spotted and she had no desire for trouble. They turned north and continued up the rise until they came to the Wind District. They came into a small pavillion paved with stones, where nearby a fountain of water rushed noisily down from Dragonsreach at the top of the hill. Near at hand, however, another voice was drowning out the sound of water: two voices, that is. One was a human, a bald-headed Imperial man in orange robes with a red sash upon his shoulder, upon which was the Red Diamond of the Empire. The other was a high elf, the first one Sigrun had seen in a while. Whereas the Dunmer were grim and ghastly with their skull-like protrusions and red eyes, the Altmer seemed as though their entire being was built for mockery. Aside from being taller than everyone else, the way the mouth curved, the narrow eyes squinted, and the tilting of the elongated head seemed permanently bent in a sneer. This high elf was dressed in black robes with armor that was made of gold with white embellishments: upon his breast was a tabard with the charges of a black and white shield, with two crossed swords behind it. The Altmer was nearest and it was his words which Sigrun caught first, then the priest.

"...where has holding on to your traditions brought you, people of Whiterun?" the Altmer asked. "Your sons have been killed, your daughters have been killed. Families have been torn apart, entire towns destroyed. And for what? Because a few drunken elders will not accept that times are changing? That holding on to outdated notions of godhood will only lead to further bloodshed and destruction? The Stormcloaks failed to recognize this, and now they are no more. The Companions, also, are a relic of a bygone era. This is not the age of savagery and brutality, but of learning, of education, of reason and logic. The Fighters Guild is a civilized organization, one that will bring peace and order to Skyrim; for all people, not merely Nords. Not only that, but the Fighters Guild will not stand idly by and watch werewolves, foul beast-folk of the daedric prince Hircine, slaughter your cattle, murder your children, rob you of your livelihoods! For, make no mistake, people of Whiterun, the Companions are certainly of such stock. Did I say they were friends of werewolves? Nay, I say that they _are_ werewolves, mongrel beast-folk, worshipers of Hircine and his craven hag-raven witches..."

"...man cannot achieve godhood!" the priest said, echoing the words of the Altmer Fighter. "Talos is a lie! A myth fabricated by warmongers, malcontents, and workers of mischief, as a banner for their war against all those who are not man! It is a banner to which many have flocked over the ages, and in the name of this false god, men have died. Now we are reaping the fruits of those great misdeeds! The man, Tiber Septim, a Breton, and not a Nord, betrayed his lord Cuhlecain, and thus the Reachmen came to be, the true masters of the west. It is because of Tiber Septim that they were marginalized, and because of those who fought in his name that they were slaughtered and demonized! If we extend the hand of friendship to these people, whom rabble-rousers and malcontents such as this so-called Dragonborn and his band of rogues, the Sons of Skyrim, have labeled as enemies, if we invite the Forsworn and the Dunmer into our cities, our homes, and our hearts with friendship, brotherhood, and with open arms, we will truly be doing the work of the Eight Divines!"

Sigrun rolled her eyes at the first nonsense, but was almost ready to pick up a stone and see if she could hit the bald patte of that damned priest. How dare he mock her father! How dare he, in the safety of the walls of Whiterun, ask them to welcome the Dunmer in with open arms, as they steal, rape, pillage, and murder! What made her even angrier was that there were many in the crowd who were Nords; and yet they remained silent. Was no other voice to be lifted up in defense of her home?

But Jonna did not stop here. Instead she carried on up the stairs straight ahead, passed the noisy fountain, and up to the lofty great hall: Dragonsreach. At the top of the stairs, before the doors of the great hall, there stood Imperial guards to bar the entrance. Jonna told them that she had business with Idolaf Battle-Born. The two guards exchanged glances with each other, then one snickered.

"What business do you have with the Jarl's fool?" the other guard asked.

"He is my father," Jonna said, not taking heed to what they called him. "And I demand that you let me speak to him at once."

"Or what?" the guard that laughed finally said. "You ain't got no weapons, there's nothing you can do about it!"

"Now, wait a moment," the other guard interjected. "Now, maybe we should let the young woman in to see him. I mean, she says that he's her father."

"Caius, what in Oblivion are you..." The second guard cut him short and Sigrun saw him wink at his companion. Already she didn't like the looks of where this was going.

"After all," the one named Caius said. "The Battle-Borns are still a noble and respected clan in Whiterun. Olfrid's son would like to know if he had any heirs to carry on the family name. He certainly needs 'em, I'd say." They both burst into laughter. Jonna furrowed her brow, angry that these Imperial bastards were making fun of her father. Roggi knew very little about this whole situation, and so kept silent. Sigrun, however, could see that they were setting something up at her expense.

A moment later, the guards composed themselves. "Right this way, citizen. If you please." They stepped back and pushed the huge oaken doors of Dragonsreach open. The three of them walked softly into the long hall with its high, vaulted roof.

It was dark inside; the braziers and torches along the sides of the hall burned low, and there was no fire upon the pit at the table of feasting. Slowly they made their way forward, up a few stairs and down along one side of the feasting table. They were now near the throne room and a little light illuminated the throne: a young man with dark hair slouched lazily upon the high-backed chair at the top of another small set of stairs. From the darkness the sound of a sword unsheathing was heard, and the three of them froze in place. The young man held up his hand, then quickly got up from his chair and made his way down the steps to meet them. Sigrun felt a knot appear in her stomach: she had seen that face before, in the darkness of the Dragonsreach dungeon but a week ago.

"Well, hello there, ladies," the young man said with a devilish grin and an unwholesome intensity in his blue eyes. "It's been a while since the dungeons of my hall, hasn't it?" Jonna was looking at the shadows, while Sigrun was more concerned about what this fellow might do.

"Oh, there's no need to worry," he said in answer to Sigrun's unspoken word, without looking her in the eyes. "I won't do anything to you...yet. Little concern of mine are you, Eirik's daughter, and you also, old drunk. But you..." He turned to Jonna. "I know what it is you seek."

"I seek..." Jonna began.

"Your father, yes," the young man nodded. Sigrun noticed he hadn't blinked once since approaching them. "I know. And I have every intention of letting you see him and speak to him." He took a step back and, in a nasal call that grated Sigrun's ears, cried out: "Fool! Come here, fool! Master has some fine folk here to see you!"

From out of the shadows, there came the jingling of tiny bells. An old man came hobbling out of the darkness; most of the hair had fallen off from his head, but the curled mustache and long, pointed beard still remained, caked with dirt, grease, and Divines only know what else, and bare of all color. He was dressed in the most outlandish fashion: he wore no shoes, but his legs were clad in old Colovian tights, one red and the other white, with a short, frayed skirt of many tassels about his waist, and bells at the end of each tassel. He wore a gaily colored surcoat that was also from Cyrodiil, and upon his head was a tall-peaked Colovian fur cap. He walked with bent back and head bowed low to the ground.

"Why are you standing up?" the young man said in a mocking tone. "Don't you know it's rude not to bow in the presence of our honored guests?" With that, the young man struck his fool across the back with a wooden switch, and sent him crashing to the floor face and knees first.

"I beg your forgiveness, Jarl Nelkir," the fool said.

"Oh, you do, don't you?" Nelkir, the young man, replied. "Don't I know you're always spitting in my dinner the first chance you get?"

"Never, my Jarl!" the fool cried, cowering upon the ground with hands covering his head.

"Are you calling me a liar, then?" Nelkir asked. He then gave three hard strikes from the switch. Sigrun noticed that he seemed to enjoy beating his fool, for he was smiling with gleeful pleasure with each strike and each yelp the fool uttered.

"Never, my lord!" the fool whimpered. "Please, have mercy!"

"'Have mercy! Have mercy!'" mocked Nelkir. "Haven't I heard that enough for the past twenty-seven years? My father was merciful in his days, Balgruuf the Greater. And do you know what that got him, hmm?"

"He died tragically, my lord," the fool uttered.

"Yes, that's right, fool Idolaf!" Nelkir cheered, sending the switch cracking across the fool's ass and laughing as he leaped in shock. "And don't you let anyone tell you otherwise, do you know why, fool?"

"Because you'll know it!" the fool said.

"That's very good," Nelkir nodded. "Now, since you're down there, why don't you lick clean my boots, hmm?"

"My lord, please..." begged the fool.

"Come, come, now," he insisted. "You didn't clean them last time, and now I've got guests to entertain, and your father's come to visit. Be thorough, now, I've stepped into some rather nasty goat-shite."

"Please, stop it!" Jonna, who had endured more than enough, interjected.

"Why?" Nelkir asked without a hint of pity. "He's my fool and I can do as I like with him." He looked down at his feet. "Well, fool, what are you waiting for, a hand-written invitation? Start licking!" The fool crawled towards Jarl Nelkir and began to lick his boots. With a loud laugh, Nelkir gave him a kick in the ass and struck the switch across his back for good measure.

"Ha! I can't believe you were actually doing it!" he laughed. "You sick little piggy! That's why you're the fool; Idolaf the Fool!" He cackled loudly, and it grated Sigrun's ears to hear it. But she couldn't stop staring at the form of Idolaf Battle-Born, lying on the ground, huddled like a baby, weeping to himself and trying to pick goat-shit out of his beard.

The stories she had heard told that he had done some terrible thing, for which he had his manhood ripped from him when her father and the Companions regained Jorrvaskr. What exactly he had done, however, was never told. But it seemed, at least to one who had never had such as he, that Idolaf had been broken by that incident. Nothing remained of the arrogant, milk-drinker who preened about the streets of Whiterun, starting fights with anyone who did not hail the Empire upon first beck. That he had allowed himself to come to this miserable state was, in her eyes, pathetic: he was not a man, and even less than a 'woman' if he had been so broken by his lack of manhood. She felt pity for it, but only insomuch as one would feel pity for a rabid dog that must needs be put down.

"Now, then, fool!" Nelkir shouted. "Get up and meet your guests. This is Jonna, daughter of Jordis, and Sigrun, the daughter of your old enemy, Eirik Bjornson, I believe." The fool crawled across the floor and looked up at Sigrun.

"So, you're that milk-drinker Eirik's brat, eh?" he said. Then he spat directly in Sigrun's face. "A cunt and a b*tch was your da! I could have beaten him myself with my bare-hands, were he not such a coward, hiding in that forest of his, licking the ass-hole of that self-righteous cow he calls a wife!"

"You son of a b*tch!" Sigrun returned, and kicked him in the stomach. Jonna leaped between them and Nelkir burst out into laughter.

"Quite a mouth he has, eh?" Nelkir said. "Just be sure to give him a good kick in the face if he gets uppity."

"Sigrun, how dare you!" Jonna shouted.

"You heard what he said about my parents!" Sigrun retorted.

"He's my father!" Jonna stated. Behind her feet, Idolaf cowered. When he heard those words, he quietly muttered to himself, "I don't have a daughter."

"No, he's not!" Sigrun retorted. "You have parents! Three of them, that love you! You want to give them up for this?"

"He's my family, Sigrun," Jonna said with deathly seriousness. "And if you strike him again, you are no sister of mine. Now, I think that it's best if you leave."

Sigrun did not know what to say. She looked at her beloved Jonna's eyes and saw only anger. She could not hold the piercing gaze of Jarl Nelkir for long, but she saw only sadistic enjoyment in them when she briefly viewed his blue eyes. Roggi was of no use whatsoever, standing silent behind her, and further beyond him came the distant sounds of laughter. Idolaf cowered when she looked down at him, which made Jonna set her face against Sigrun as though...

As though she were an enemy.

Against her desire, Sigrun willed the springs in her head to remain assuaged as she stared down Jonna. Yet she could not hold the look of shock at being betrayed that crept onto her face.

"Alright, Jons, you win," she sighed at last. "I'll leave. Divines smile on you." Without another word, she turned her back and left Dragonsreach. Roggi did not follow her, though she did not expect him to do so. Once she passed the doors, she saw the two Imperial guards laughing; their laughter was put to silence when they looked into her eyes, blazing with wrath and sorrow.

Down the stairs she went and into the crowd still in the Wind District, heedless of two hooded figures that took notice of her and began to follow on behind. From there she hastily made her way back down into the Plains District, then back out to the gate where she took from the guards her sword and Havi's sword. The day was not yet old and she still had plenty of the food Roggi had given her. Without a second look back at Whiterun, Sigrun walked down to the bottom of the hill, and then turned right, towards the north.

As she was walking, her restraint gave out at last and the springs of her head were loosed: large, hot tear-drops rolled down her cheeks. She had been forced to make a choice between protecting Jonna and remaining her friend and sister. She would have preferred to choose both, and even now she felt that her place was at Jonna's side. But she knew that she could not in good conscience remain there with that piteous thing that she called a father. It still baffled her that Jonna could choose to defend someone that had insulted the people who raised both of them.

Suddenly a sharp pain pierced her shoulder-blade, then a feeling like tiny icy daggers spreading out across her back, then she fell forward and knew no more.

* * *

 **(AN: Many things happened in this chapter, to be sure. I hope you all remained patient as i got this one together. Thankfully it took less time than the last ones have.)**

 **(I didn't mean to have them separated so soon, but i wanted also not to throw a certain plot-important character into the mix so early on. So things get a little bit interesting this way, and we get to see the consequences of Jonna demanding the secret knowledge. Also had to earn that M-rating with the language [as if the descriptions of severed limbs during Sigrun's escape in "Stormborn" weren't enough]. As for Sigrun herself, she is smart, doing a bit more thinking than talking, and knows how to hold her own in a fight, but her perception of her surroundings isn't the best. It's another reason that she's also not a very good hunter. Not necessarily clumsy, just not always aware. Can't make her "too perfect", am i right?)**


	12. The Bitter Truth

**(AN: Here the consequences of knowledge are discovered for Jonna. But, as a warning, they might be more long-lasting than just shattered dreams.)**

* * *

 **The Bitter Truth**

The silence that filled the great hall of Dragonsreach was broken by chuckling from Jarl Nelkir. Jonna remained where she stood, in front of Idolaf's crouching form, stunned at what she had just done. She felt as though she had taken her axe to her right hand and cut it off. With a sigh, she shook her head and told herself that this was for the best. She had her father, and that was all that should matter. Still, she could not shake the nagging feeling that she was betraying herself and everything she once held dear.

 _No,_ she thought to herself. _This is what I've wanted, it's what I've always wanted. If Sigrun can't accept this, then that's her problem._

She turned about and looked down at the huddled form of Idolaf, her father. She ignored what she saw, telling herself over and over that this was her father and that she had nothing to be ashamed about over this man.

"It's alright, father," she said, forcing a smile. "No one's gonna hurt you."

"I'm not your father, b*tch," Idolaf mumbled, cowering away from her.

"And I'm sorry to tell you, pretty," Jarl Nelkir interjected. "But I can do whatever I want to him. He's my fool, a gift from Count Edvald the Wise of Bruma upon my ascension to the throne of Whiterun."

"Isn't slavery outlawed in the Empire?" Jonna asked.

"Don't be so naive," Nelkir grinned menacingly. "The laws of the Empire can be bent whenever convenient. Haven't you ever heard of the Bruma Massacre?"

"The Empire wills it," Idolaf muttered to himself. "I did what I had to do. I was only following orders. No Battle-Born would dare do otherwise!"

At that point, an old bald man dressed in rich clothes entered the great hall. He moved slowly, supported by a wooden staff, but deliberately; he walked as though each step was willed by his mind against the desire or ability of his body. He took one look at Jonna, then turned to the Jarl and asked for an explanation.

"This urchin," Nelkir said, gesturing to Jonna. "Barged into my throne room and claimed to be Idolaf's daughter."

"And you're just letting her stand there like that?" the old man said. He then turned to Jonna and slowly approached her. "So, you're my grand-daughter, eh?"

"And you are?" Jonna asked.

"Olfrid Battle-Born," the old man proudly proclaimed. "And if you are indeed Idolaf's daughter, that makes you my grand-daughter. I welcome you into our family and clan." He held out his arms as if he would embrace Jonna. She accepted the embrace, though she was wary as she did so. Why was it her father would not accept her but her grandfather would? As they parted, the old man noticed the gray-haired Idolaf huddled on the ground.

"Get up, boy!" sneered Olfrid. With that, he struck the huddled form with his staff. "You embarrass me. Follow me, both of you."

Jonna followed after old Olfrid, while Idolaf, half bent over, crawled on behind after them. The three of them walked over to a side-room in the great hall, one reserved for the Jarl's most esteemed guests. As they approached the room, somebody scurried out of view and into a dark corner. Olfrid struck his son Idolaf again with the staff.

"Don't you know how to treat your only daughter?" he demanded. "Pull up a chair for her, and be quick about it!"

Idolaf bowed and pulled up a chair at the table, into which Jonna sat down. Olfrid then took a seat for himself and cried for the servants to bring him food. Jonna looked back over her shoulder at the main hall, and saw the guards leading Roggi out of the hall.

"My son Idolaf never told me that he had any daughters," Olfrid stated. "No matter. You have the supreme honor of being part of the greatest family and clan in all of Skyrim: you should be very proud."

"I am!" Jonna said; she was beaming. "It's always been my dream to find my father and have a family and a name of my own. Praise Talos that this came to pass!" Jonna noticed that Olfrid was glaring at her angrily. "What?"

"We don't speak of Tiber Septim as a god in this house," Olfrid said. "The White-Gold Concordant decreed that Tiber Septim is no god, and we are very loyal in this house. I'll excuse you this once, since you're new and don't know these things, but we will not be having more traitorous words of the sort. Is that clear?"

"As you say, grandfather," Jonna returned. She was a bit surprised that her birth-family did not worship Talos, or that they were loyal to the Empire, despite the many executions being carried out in Whiterun. But it felt good to have a grandfather, to have a family, to belong; therefore she suppressed these doubts and focused instead on what she had now.

"What can you tell me about our family?" she asked. "You said that we were the greatest clan in all of Skyrim. I'm dying to know more about us and our exploits."

At this, Idolaf began to mourn softly where he lay curled up in a ball on the ground, while Olfrid became grim and crestfallen.

"A great and terrible curse has befallen our family," Olfrid replied. "But why this has happened is anyone's guess. The Eight have not revealed their will to us, no matter how much money we send to their temples and shrines. Perhaps the Eight are dead; how else could the temple on Sancre Tor been destroyed without their intervention?"

"What do you mean?" Jonna asked, worry in her voice and face.

"My dear Bergitte was killed in the middle of the night," Olfrid grumbled. "There had been a raid of our homestead and some of our things were taken. She protested, but the guards killed her." He sighed.

"Aren't you angry?" Jonna asked.

"It is sad, indeed," sighed Olfrid. "But the Empire is law. They said that they had good reason to search our place, and when the Empire gives a command, we must obey."

Jonna lowered her head. Into her mind came memories of the stories she had heard of Sigrun's father; how he had risen up an army of Stormcloaks and reorganized them into the Sons of Skyrim, the defenders of the Nord people. If someone had threatened Mjoll, swift retribution would be brought upon them. That was her old family, and she had turned her back on that for a family of...

 _No,_ she thought. _I cannot say that. It's not true. They are_ my _family and I will stand by them for better or worse._

"How many children did you and grandma Bergitte have?" she asked.

Again Olfrid seemed uncomfortable as he spoke. "Idolaf and Alfhild are my only children, eldest son and youngest daughter."

"But I heard about one named Jon Battle-b..."

"I have no son named Jon!" Olfrid shouted angrily, stamping his staff upon the floor. "My children are loyal and not enamored with traitors!"

Jonna balked at the fierce rebuke. Again, unbidden into her mind came the memory of Sigrun's father. She had seen him angry, even raising his voice so much that the house shook, but when he was angry, there was always a good reason. He never became angry over a simple question such as the one she had asked grandpa Olfrid.

"And where is Alfhild?" Jonna asked.

"She ran away to Solitude seventeen years ago," Olfrid sighed. "A pity. She would have been proud to see her daughter returned to her family, as I am now."

"My mother isn't Alfhild," Jonna stated.

"Oh?" Olfrid asked. "I thought because you were Idolaf's daughter, she would have been your mother. My son had his days of spreading his wild oats, but that ended after he married his sister. I made sure of that."

"His sister?" Jonna exclaimed.

"Yes. Incest among the Nord clans is quite acceptable," Olfrid replied, matter-of-factually. "I certainly wouldn't marry my Idolaf to some Gray-Mane scum, or some nameless b*tch from the gutter."

"Like you!" Idolaf said to Jonna, then spat in her face. Olfrid struck him again with his staff.

"Silence, you brat!" he shouted. "Don't you have any respect for family?"

"She ain't family!" Idolaf retorted. "She's just a gutter-cunt, taking advantage of our suffering to make herself rich."

Jonna was taken aback by the words her own father was speaking about her. Despite her firmness and strength of will, she couldn't help herself and her eyes became hot and watery. Unfortunately, Olfrid saw her too and slapped her across the face.

"What's that, tears?" he shouted. "No grand-daughter of mine is going to be a blubbering little b*tch. You're a Battle-Born!"

"She'll rob us blind in our sleep!" Idolaf stated.

"And what would you have me do, eh?" Olfrid shouted back. "Wait for the Divines to give you back your balls so you can give me a proper son and heir to our family, if Alfhild will even have you?"

"What happened to him?" Jonna asked.

"None of your business, b*tch!" Idolaf retorted.

"Don't talk to your daughter like that!" Olfrid roared, striking Idolaf with his staff. He turned back to Jonna. "You're one of us, now, girl, and therefore our enemy is your enemy. The one who robbed your father of his manhood was Thorvald Gray-Mane, the son of our ancient enemy. Like a coward, he now hides with those rebels and brigands the Sons of Skyrim!"

"Curse them all!" Idolaf swore. "Rebel filth! Curse them and their leader, that cock-sucker Eirik! He didn't have the balls to face me in honest combat, like a man! Hiding behind his thugs and that fat b*tch of his! He knew I would have shamed him, as I did time and time again!"

"Keep telling yourself that, son," Olfrid sneered. "Maybe one day it'll be true!" He kicked Idolaf in the stomach.

"Why do you treat him so roughly?" Jonna asked. "He's your son!"

"He's a b*tch!" Olfrid retorted. "Instead of taking vengeance upon that Gray-Mane cunt, he turned into a woman: less than a woman! He became a fool, the sport of Count Edvald, who then sold him to Jarl Nelkir." He aimed his finger at Jonna. "Never question my authority in front of my family again, girl, or I'll disown you! Is that clear?"

At this point, the servants appeared with platters of food. But Olfrid waved them away.

"I have lost my appetite," he grumbled.

"I'm hungry," Jonna spoke up.

"Then you will have a greater appetite for breakfast tomorrow," Olfrid returned. He then waved the servants away. "Go throw it away to the dogs, but don't let anyone else have it." He slowly raised himself onto his feet and turned to Jonna. "Come here and give your grandfather a kiss goodnight or I'll kick your teeth in!" Though he looked quite frail, Jonna worried that his threat was entirely genuine. Slowly and sheepishly she approached him and planted a kiss on his cheek. He did not return the gesture.

"Don't leave town," he told her. "We have much to discuss on the morrow." With that, he shuffled away out of the room. As soon as he had left, Idolaf dragged himself up into a kneeling, hunched position by holding onto one of the chairs, and glared at Jonna.

"You may have him fooled," he said. "But not me. You watch your back, b*tch. If I find a single thing missing, I'll cut your throat open and fist-fuck the hole! I may have no cock, but I can still fuck you over if you try to fuck with me!" He flashed a leering, menacing smile at her, then crawled away on all fours like an animal into the darkness. Jonna was amazed that someone so broken and emaciated could still force themselves to be venomous and threatening.

* * *

As soon as he left, Jonna heard sniffling in the back of the hall. Carefully she made her way towards the noise, picking up a candle from one of the tables. In its light, she saw a young man cowering in a corner, with his hands over his head.

"Hello there," she greeted. "Are you alright?"

The youth made no answer, but seemed to balk as she spoke at him.

"It's okay," she said. "Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."

"He's been like that way since he was a child," the voice of Jarl Nelkir resounded. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "A little Redguard girl picked on him. But his poor da was too busy picking fights with the Stormcloaks to teach him to defend himself." Jonna looked this way and that, but all she saw were the shadows creeping all around her, seeming to overpower the light of the candle.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Right behind you," the voice spoke, clearer and more at hand. Jonna turned around and saw Nelkir standing behind her, the same wolfish glare in his eyes as she had seen in the eyes of Idolaf, her father.

"Olfrid's a hard man, isn't he?" Nelkir asked. "Then again, any man would be, with so great a family brought into ashes. His son's a eunuch, his daughter's ran away, and his middle son disowned." He leaned in towards her. "I think you were better off with Sigrun's family, to be honest. They may not have been blood, but at least they treated you right."

Jonna took a wary step back, her heart full of mistrust over this dark-haired Jarl and his bulging eyes. She began to say "How do you know all of this?", but he interjected.

"How do I know all of these things?" he asked. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "I see everything. Every secret that passes between the walls of Whiterun is known to me. There is nothing hidden from me."

"Is that so?" Jonna asked.

"It is indeed," he nodded. "For instance, I know that you've lived all your life jealous of your step-sister Sigrun. She had a loving family, a house all of her own, a brother and sister, and she was taller than you! Everything you wanted to be she was, and it angered you that you had to work for what she was given by nature. Furthermore, you're jealous that she's stronger than you in adversity, and you know it." He chuckled. "Impressed yet? Or shall I tell you the secret of your conception?"

"What?" Jonna breathed.

"Oh, yes," Nelkir nodded. "Do you wonder why Idolaf didn't welcome you with open arms? It wasn't just because he's a dick-less weakling, less than a woman. The truth is that he never knew you existed, on account of he didn't plan for you to be born."

"What are you saying?" she asked, the tears in her eyes welling up.

"Your mother knew too much," Nelkir said, a fiendish smile on his face. "And she suffered because of it. But..." He took the candle out of her hand and held it over her head. "...a little drop of seed can do so much." A single drop of hot, pale wax dripped onto her forehead and solidified.

Before Jonna could do anything, the candle was snuffed out and Nelkir's mocking laughter was heard echoing throughout the hall. She was shaken to the core at what she heard, but even more so at this nagging feeling that she knew that Jarl Nelkir knew more than he was letting on. Blindly she groped in the darkness, trying to find where to go. At last, however, she stumbled into the main antechamber of the great hall. Waiting for her at the end, she noticed, was none other than Roggi.

"There you are!" he greeted. "I wondered where you went off to. They wouldn't let me go with you, so I waited out here."

Jonna did not answer immediately, but made her way out of the hall; the guards did not prevent her exit. As she approached the door, they opened it for her and she stepped out into the light. Light, yes, for the day was growing old but had not yet faded into the west: it was not as dark out here as in the hall. Her eyes blinked and pulled back over her eyes damp. Despite herself, she was shedding tears. So great and deep was her sorrow that she did not realize that Roggi Knot-Beard was standing at her right side, waiting for her.

"Is everythin' well?" he at last spoke. She did not answer, but merely shook her head.

Then, to her surprise, Roggi placed his arm about her shoulders: it was an unexpected gesture, but she did not brush off his arm or disuade him.

"Tell me what's wrong, lass," he said. "I didn't hear nothing out here, but your face says plain enough that whatever happened wasn't good."

Hesitantly, Jonna told Roggi what had happened. But she left out the matter of Jarl Nelkir's words to her. There was something unwholesome about what he said and the tone in which he told it. She dare not share it with anyone, not until she learned the full matter and what his cryptic words meant. Roggi did not answer at first, but instead was silent for a moment. He weighed in his mind what Jonna's words meant and how, in his small understanding, he might answer them.

"What will you do, then?" he asked.

"I don't know," Jonna replied, shaking her head. "I feel...unwelcome, un-trusted, used even. And yet, I want a family of my own. I won't forsake them, even if their words may hurt me."

"I wouldn't ask ye to forsake kin," Roggi nodded. "Nonetheless, perhaps these kin ain't what you need?"

"What are you saying?" Jonna asked, with a hint of shock and distrust.

"Only this," Roggi stated. "My own kin died many year ago: a'fore even the dragons appeared in Skyrim, no other family to speak of. I befriended the folk o' Kynesgrove, an' they became as close as kin to me. It may be that the kin o' your choosin' may be more rightly kin than the kin o' your blood."

"I understand what you say," Jonna nodded. "And I thank you for it." But inside, she was angry that he had said this. Who was he to say that her blood family, the Battle-Borns, were not truly her family? Did she not deserve to have a family, the same as Sigrun did? She rubbed her eyes with the coarse cloth of her sleeve.

"What will you do?" Roggi asked.

"Stay here," she replied. "And you?"

"The same," he said. "Until I'm sure that I've lost the trail o' the Sisters of Strife, it ain't safe to return to Eastmarch." Roggi gave Jonna's right shoulder a gentle squeeze, then assayed to leave. He had not taken but one step down the stairs leading from the Cloud District when he turned around and said: "If you ever need me, for anything, I'll be at the Bannered Mare."

Jonna nodded in confirmation. As Roggi turned around and left, the ghost of a smile crept across her face. It was not as dark as it had appeared in the great hall, neither was she as alone as she had once believed. In her heart, she wanted to go after him, but she willed against it. Her place was here, she told herself, with her new family.

 _If I abandon them at the first sign of trouble_ , she reasoned to herself. _Then faithless must I be among all the daughters of Skyrim._

The rest of that day Jonna spent in solitude and silence in Dragonsreach Hall. There was no fire upon the hearth, and she did not seek out Jarl Nelkir. For the present time, he did not seek her out, and that was to her liking. She tried her damnedest not to think about his eyes, but they crept into her mind like a worm nonetheless. That unwholesomeness which she had seen in his eyes, like the hunger of a ravenous wolf, had been burned into her memory. It was like...no, she berated herself for making the comparison.

The night fell, but neither Idolaf nor Olfrid came to speak with her or offer her food for the evening meal or to bid her goodnight. Instead she wrapped herself in her cloak and tried to will herself to sleep. Whoever that stranger was hiding in the darkness seemed to have left when she was not looking, for she heard no sound of whimpering or weeping. But the silence was worse than the tumult of battle: gentle as a gossamer silk thread, soft as a whisper, but carrying with it an impossible weight and terror. The terror of silence, the knowledge that, having heard the depths of uttermost silence, a whisper would be as loud as a scream and as painful as a hundred piercing daggers, laced with poison.

But sleep at last overcame her.

* * *

When morning came, Jonna was roused awake by the painful prodding of a wooden staff. Clutching her stomach, she crawled up off the floor where she had laid, wrapped in her cloak. Standing before her was Olfrid, who still looked as cross and curmudgeonly as yesterday. Behind him on the floor cowered Idolaf and the young man she had seen in the shadows.

"There you are!" Olfrid said. "Come on now, on your feet. We have pressing matters to attend to."

"Like what, grandfather?" Jonna asked.

"Only the most important matter of all," Olfrid returned. "Your marriage."

"I'm telling you, father, you're mistaken!" Idolaf mumbled. "She's taking advantage of us."

"Silence!" Olfrid shouted. "It's your own damn fault for letting that Gray-Mane shit rob you of your stones."

"Thorvald didn't rob me of nothing!" Idolaf swore. "He's a b*tch, just like Eirik and his fat cock-sucker Mjoll!"

"What do you have against Eirik?" Jonna asked.

"He's a b*tch!" Idolaf repeated. "Striding about Skyrim, preening like a pretty cock, telling everyone he meets that he's the Dragonborn or some stupid shit. I could have beaten him to death with my cock!"

"If you _had_ a cock, that is!" Olfrid retorted with a laugh. Idolaf winced as though he had been struck, then bowed his head and proceeded to bite and chew on his finger-nails. He turned back to Jonna with a sigh.

"My son, the man you claim to be your father," Olfrid said. "Says that he never had any children. Whether that's true or not ain't my problem. If you ain't Battle-Born blood, then we'll marry you into the family and make you Battle-Born."

"She's a street-wench!" Idolaf muttered. "This is just what she wants, to wed my boy and steal our money! Can't believe you're so blind, father!"

"I said shut up!" Olfrid roared, striking Idolaf on the face with his staff. "I don't care what you tell people, you lost your manhood! You're useless in providing our family with an heir!"

"Lars is of age," Idolaf said, gesturing to the young man.

"Lars is a b*tch, thanks to you!" Olfrid shouted. The young man burst into tears and Idolaf clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. "You let that little Redguard b*tch bully him while you were plotting the downfall of the Gray-Manes!"

"You wanted them dead as much as I did!" Idolaf returned. "You were part of the plan!"

"Silence!" roared Olfrid. He struck Idolaf again with his staff, and he fell to the floor, his hands crumbling out of fists. "You failed him as a father! You ran into Count Edvald's arms and left the fate of our family in my hands! Now I'm going to save us from extinction, brought on by your cowardice! I'll make sure the Battle-Born clan lives, even if I have to fuck Jonna myself!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jonna asked.

"Shut up, b*tch!" Olfrid shouted, swinging his staff at her. Jonna ducked from the blow and stepped back. "Insolent cunt! You're going to marry Lars Battle-Born and save this family, or you're no Battle-Born!"

"I am a Battle-Born!" Jonna returned. "And I'm Idolaf's daughter, whether he remembers or not."

"So? You're still marrying Lars," Olfrid grumbled. "This family needs an heir!"

"But he's my brother!" Jonna stated.

"So?" Olfrid repeated. "Idolaf married his sister and Lars turned out fine. You're marrying Lars and that's that!"

"Alfhild didn't have no daughters," Idolaf muttered.

"She wasn't my mother," Jonna replied. "Jordis the Sword-maiden is my mother."

There was stunned silence for almost a minute. At last Idolaf began a loud, mocking laugh that almost sounded like a cough.

"That insolent house-carl of the Emperor's?" Idolaf laughed. "She was a b*tch, and I fucked her ass to teach her a lesson, as the Emperor commanded. Didn't know she was with child: I'd have had you cut out and bashed your skull against a rock."

Jonna didn't say anything, but bit her lip as she tried in vain to blink back tears. Still, she could not supress the feeling of betrayal. There wasn't any way of denying or dismissing what had been heard and said.

"It don't matter who your mother is, b*tch!" Olfrid said, frustrated. "You're marrying Lars, as I've said a hundred times already!"

"What if I won't?" Jonna asked.

"Then you can fuck off," Olfrid replied, his countenance falling into a loathesome grimace. "Because you're no kin."

"All this time," Jonna said. "All the kind words, it was all so that I could marry my own half-brother, just to keep your family alive?"

"Yes!" Olfrid stated matter-of-factly, emphasizing his point with a curt nod. "It's a matter of duty, something an ignorant b*tch like you wouldn't understand. If you did, you'd have accepted my offer without so much fuss."

"And you!" Jonna turned to Idolaf. "You don't even want to have me as your daughter?"

"You're not my daughter!" Idolaf retorted. "You're just after our money. Well, I won't surrender it to you, you hear me? Not a single gold septim!"

"Well..." Jonna said. "I won't stand for this!" She surprised herself at having said those words, and instantly regretted saying them.

"Ungrateful b*tch!" scowled Olfrid. His words did not make her regret her decision any less. In fact, having been her only ally, his words made her realize just how far her decision had put herself from him. She took a step closer towards him, but he raised his staff to strike again.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Jarl Nelkir's drawling voice sounded from the other side of the hall.

"My lord!" Olfrid said, bowing low as the Jarl entered.

"Both of you, in fact," Nelkir said. "You, Olfrid, will not throw her out of this hall, and you, girl, will not leave Whiterun."

"Why not?" both Olfrid and Jonna asked as one.

"Really?" Nelkir asked. "You of all people, old man Battle-Born, should know better!" He laughed. "Perhaps you need a demonstration of why."

"Please, my lord," Olfrid begged, all anger melting out of his body as he seemed to become sad and fearful.

"'Please, my lord,'" mocked the Jarl. He then turned to Idolaf and waved him forward with his hand. Like a whipped dog, Idolaf flinched then crawled forward on all fours.

"Don't do this, please!" Olfrid begged again. His old, wrinkled eyes were brimming with tears. Jonna half-believed that these were true tears, and not some pitiful contrivance.

"You forget that I'm your lord, Olfrid," Nelkir said, as his hands began to unfasten his belt. "You do as I tell you without question. You know that I know, and that I know such as would find that knowledge...useful." Then, to Jonna's surprise and disgust, Jarl Nelkir dropped his trousers and began slapping Idolaf on the face, laughing mockingly at his sport. Jonna saw Olfrid was weeping: were it not for his words before, she would have felt some measure of pity for him.

"You like that, don't you, b*tch?" Nelkir mocked Idolaf. "Of course you do, because you do what I tell you, don't you?" He looked up at Olfrid, a smile on his face. "You see, old man? You and your whole family are under my power." He then pointed towards Jonna. "If I say she stays, she stays." Jonna flinched under his intense, piercing gaze, unable to master herself. He chuckled menacingly.

"Oh, don't worry, pretty," he said. "I have plenty of women for myself, and no need for you in this matter."

If it had been his intention to assuage her fears, he had done a most terrible job. If anything, she feared him even more. What more could he ask of her, if not her body?

"Why, then, do I ask you to stay?" asked the Jarl. Jonna blanched with an unnerving realization that he knew, or at least guessed, her thoughts with deadly accuracy. He smirked. "You'll know soon enough."

* * *

For the rest of the day, Jonna stayed in the darkened hall. She was well-fed, and the food that the Jarl prepared for her was such as was to her liking. Nay, more than that, but all of the dishes brought before her were her favorites. All throughout breakfast, she noticed that the Jarl watched her with a devious glare. At his orders, the Battle-Borns did not darken her with their shadows. If, perchance, one happened to pass into the main hall by accident, Nelkir had Idolaf dragged into the main hall and humiliated him in some new, deviant, creative way.

Nelkir said little to Jonna, only to ask her if the food was to her liking. Jonna answered sparsely, but did not spend much time with speech. Time passed on and she kept to herself, and the Jarl was busy with affairs of state; therefore they saw each other very little. In this time, Jonna spent much more time in thought. Angrily she berated herself for how she had treated Sigrun. Though it seemed that there was no time or occasion to leave, she was determined to try her best and make an escape at first chance. If she could get out of the city, that would be enough for her.

By the time of the afternoon meal, food was again brought forth for Jonna. Jarl Nelkir did not eat with her, and the guards did not answer her questions. As she was thus eating in solitude, a guest arrived in the great hall of Dragonsreach. A golden-skinned Altmer dressed in leather armor, wearing a black tabard with a white shield and two crossed swords upon the field, entered the hall, demanding that he speak with the lord of the hall. The elf was escorted almost immediately into a room apart, and as the doors were being shut, Jonna thought she saw Jarl Nelkir within.

The elf did not reappear all that day, unless he departed by some other way other than the main doors.

All that day the Jarl did not appear. Not even a hint of him was to be seen anywhere. The Battle-Borns were not to be seen, and Jonna did not mind at all. What had happened between them was not at all to her liking. But now, in the solitude and dimness of the great hall of Dragonsreach, Jonna planned her departure. She was still racked with uncertainty and doubt, and it seemed that she would not get far. But she tried to steel herself for her task. The guards didn't seem to make any move to stop her if she made her way to the door. The Jarl was nowhere to be found, whether in sight or in presence. Over and over, she tried to convince herself that she could do this.

At dinner time, the servants brought out the food for her as per the Jarl's request. Jonna asked them if they had seen the Jarl and where he was, but they quickly became tight-lipped and departed, casting fearful, furtive glances to the shadows as they did. This made her more than a little concerned, but she tried her damnedest to dismiss her fears. Perhaps the Jarl and the elf in armor had taken their leave, and she had been left forgotten in the hall. This would be her golden opportunity, one which she could not afford to waste.

Once darkness fell came upon Whiterun, Jonna decided that she would leave. As far as she knew, she had left her gear at the gate of the city, which she could get once she left. The rest was simply a matter of running down to the Plains District as fast as she could; this was not very difficult, as she was short and could run faster than most, even Sigrud. Nervously she paced the floor of the great hall, going over in her mind what she had to do.

 _There's nothing else for it_ , she told herself. _You either go now, damn it, or spend all of your days debating this._

With that, she sighed, turned towards the door and essayed to leave. Slowly she crossed the hall, starkly aware of the sound her footsteps made on the marble floor. Yet though the hall was shrouded in darkness, there was no sign of the guards anywhere. Torches burned in their iron fittings upon walls and wooden pillars, but their light showed no one at the posts. It seemed a little too easy, but Jonna did not want to wait for it to become harder. The Divines, it seemed, had left her an opening and she was about to take it.

"Going somewhere?" a voice spoke from the darkness.

Jonna froze. The voice came from the shadows, but shadows were all around her and the voice seemed to have no determinate point of origin. It was everywhere, just like the darkness.

"I thought I told you not to leave," Nelkir's voice rang.

"I have to go," Jonna replied. "I have to find my sister."

"She's not your sister," Nelkir's voice said. "She was never truly your family, remember? That's why you came here as soon as you learned who your father was. Not quite what you expected, eh?"

"You lie!" Jonna retorted. "She is my sister."

"Oh, you call her your sister all you want, but she is not your blood," the Jarl said. "You may have fooled your adopted parents, but you always resented the fact that she had a complete family and you did not."

"You son of a b*tch!" Jonna shouted.

"Is that any way to talk to your superior?" asked Jarl Nelkir. At this, he stepped into the light. He was fully dressed in his noble regalia, with a thick cloak of animal fur about his shoulders, and a piercing look in his eyes. At his belt was a black sword, fashioned in the style of the Akaviri long-swords, with the blade slightly curved.

"You're armed?" Jonna asked. "I thought the Empire ordered all weapons confiscated."

"Oh, they have," Nelkir replied. "But this..." He gently patted the grip of the sword, which had a circular guard and no pommel. "...this is a very special sword. The Empire knows nothing about this, and that's the way I like to keep it."

"So what are you going to do, huh?" Jonna returned. "Kill me now that I know your secret?"

"By all that is unholy!" Nelkir scoffed. "You women are so full of yourselves! If it's not your life you think we want, then it's your cunt! Well, I want neither, so you can just shut up and listen for a moment!" Jonna was taken aback by his harsh, blunt language. But he mastered himself and continued in his honey-sweet, mocking tone.

"As for secrets..." He chuckled. "I know more than you know. That's why I need you, hmm?"

"Me?" Jonna asked. "Why do you need me?"

"Your friend," he continued. "The one you call your sister. Her soul is in grave danger."

"What do you mean?" Jonna asked. "And no games!"

"Her father made a pact with some very naughty people," Nelkir said. "The Glistening One for a blade to slay the children of the night, the Huntsman for survival; and finally, the Old Man in the Woods to defeat the First one."

"I said no games!" Jonna retorted.

"Oh, but this is the truth, the very truth," Nelkir returned. "Just because you're dense doesn't make it any less true."

"But what does Eirik have to do with me or Sigrun?" Jonna asked.

"Don't you know, foolish girl?" Nelkir returned. "The lords of Oblivion always come to claim their due, most of the time when you do not expect it." Jonna recalled Eirik saying something about not meddling with the daedra. "But your friend's father meddled with them, and for seventeen years they have not yet come to collect their due. Your friend's soul will be their claim."

"How do I stop it?" Jonna asked, without a second thought.

"You can't," Nelkir said with a grin. "The daedra always come for their claim, one way or another."

"Then why do you need me?" Jonna returned.

"You're a fearless adventurer," Nelkir stated. "Surely you, of all people, would not shirk from this task. And, as I said before, your soul has no claim."

"What do you want?" Jonna asked again.

Nelkir spoke, but as he did, he walked about her, disappearing periodically into the shadows only to reappear behind her suddenly. He moved so quietly and swiftly that he seemed to be made of the shadows as well.

"A long time ago," he said. "Before you were born, there was a little boy, the black sheep of the family. He pried into holes and corners, dark places beneath the lights. At last he found something, a door where a lady whispered from the shadows. Promises were made, deals brokered, in exchange for knowledge...and power. The boy let his brother and sister in on this plan, like a foolish little child, and together they killed their father. They spun their webs, told stories about how it happened, making sure nobody could trace the truth back to them. But that little boy learned something, the moment the black blade tasted his father's blood."

Suddenly Nelkir was face to face with Jonna, a look of intensity in his eyes.

"What did he learn?" Jonna asked.

"Everything!" Nelkir said. It was with those words that Jonna realized the boy that the Jarl was talking about was none other than himself.

"Every secret of every man, woman, and child that passed the gates of the city and lives within Whiterun," he continued, with the same intensity. "Once they enter, I know everything: every lie the women have ever told, every time the men have pleasured themselves, every thing the children see when their parents don't think they're looking. I know everything in Whiterun...and I have no rest!" He stepped back, and Jonna saw that his hands, hanging at his sides, were trembling violently.

"That's why I need you, hmm?" he said. "Your soul is untainted, there is no claim on you. You will serve as a replacement. I will find a way, the Emperor is a daedra worshiper, and will soon visit Skyrim. He will help his loyal subject, though I am but a Nord. And then you will do it; you will release me from this maddening prison of knowledge!"

As he spoke, Jarl Nelkir's hands reached up to his head and clawed at his temples. Jonna's first reaction was to run, and run she did. Without thinking if the guards would be there or not, she pushed the doors open and ran down the steps of the Cloud District. A shout was heard, but she refused to heed it. All that mattered was getting to the gates of the city.

Strong hands suddenly seized her by the arms and before she could cry out, a rough, burlap sack was thrown over her head.

* * *

 **(AN: Not sure what will happen next. There are plenty of things planned, but they are starting to unravel soon. Also, this story is becoming tedious to write. I usually have the idea for the ending of the story, and maybe half an idea for a start, but the stuff getting there is what bugs me. It's the same with my music)**

 **(On a lighter note, I got my debut album released. I can't promote it in the author's note, but it's a triumph of writing that, hopefully, will give me a bit more incentive to keep on writing, both music and prose.)**


	13. Strife

**(AN: I was reading back through some of my earlier chapters to get some reference for what is going to happen in this chapter, and learned that i made a mistake. I listed two different people as the Jarl of Riften. Thankfully, i made both stories technically true [horay for retroactive continuity!]. I've also been thoroughly engrossed in the weirder aspects of _Elder Scrolls_ lore, which explains some of the really weird stuff happening in this chapter. You'll never guess what it entails.)**

 **(I say 'weird', but I might have to give further warning. What happens in this chapter may be too disturbing for some audiences. You have been warned.)**

* * *

 **Strife**

The darkness began to dissipate. In the east the sun began to rise, and the grassy waves of Whiterun were crested with gold. Sigrun breathed deeply the cool morning air; it was invigorating and brought a smile to her face. She looked north, where the snows rested upon the high mountains all year long, and then west, towards the dwindling darkness of the Reach. Her father had never told many stories about the Reach. Maybe she would go there and do battle with the fierce Reachmen, the savage Forsworn. The sound of clanking armor and footsteps in the deep turf behind and to her right told her that she was not alone. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a sight that stung her heart.

Jonna. She was there with her, a smile on her face. Or was it Jonna? Perhaps it was her heart playing tricks on her mind while she slept, or a trick of the new morning's light, but the small frame of Jonna Jordisdottir changed into that of a strange man, one whom she had neither met nor knew. He was tall, about a hand's width taller than her, with broad shoulders beneath his iron armor, and long was his crimson hair. Though Sigrun knew him not, there was something about him that made her feel content.

A blast of icy cold water smote her in the face, and she awoke coughing, sputtering and shivering. She was inside a dimly lit cavern, surrounded by six figures hooded and wearing masks. All of them were armed with various weapons: bows and arrows, swords, axes, clubs, maces, and spears. Sigrun looked about at the hidden faces, but they did not speak to her.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want?"

There was no answer. One of the masked ones turned to another and nodded at another one. The second one nodded and left the cavern. Sigrun tried to move but found that her hands and feet were bound: she struggled to break free, but found that the restraints were tightly secured, beyond her strength to break them. A few minutes passed and another hooded figure appeared. This seemed to be one the others respected, for as the figure appeared, they parted to give it a clear path to their prisoner.

"Leave us," the new one spoke. The voice was female, and Sigrun seemed to recognize the voice.

"You sure, Number One?" another of the hooded and masked figures asked. Also a female.

"Don't worry," the one identified as 'Number One' replied. "She won't give us any trouble."

One by one the others left the cave. Once they were out of sight, Number One slowly approached her. At first she said nothing, merely looking at Sigrun from beneath her hood, though no face could be seen.

"Who are you?" Sigrun asked. "Why am I here?"

"I had to make sure," Number One said.

"Sure of what?"

"That you were the right Sigrun," said Number One.

"What does my name matter?" Sigrun asked.

"Haven't you guessed yet?" Number One asked. At this, Number One removed first her hood and then her mask. Beneath was a woman in her late twenties, with dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. She had dark hair, which was long at the back but had been shaved from the sides of her head. Sigrun gasped as she recognized the face.

"Hello, sis," she said.

"Lucia?" Sigrun muttered.

"It's been too long," Lucia said, a smile on her face. "I'm sorry I couldn't find you sooner. You don't know how hard it was, looking for you."

"Where have you been?" Sigrun asked. "All of these years you were missing, we couldn't find you anywhere in Skyrim. And why am I tied up?"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Lucia dismissed. "I'll have your bonds removed in a minute. We have so much to talk about, you and I, so much catching up to do!" With that, she removed a key from her bosom and unlocked Sigrun's bonds. Sigrun's first instinct was to make for the exit, but Lucia placed her hands on Sigrun's shoulders. A shiver ran through her body: it had been so long since she felt her adopted older sister's arms around her shoulders in a friendly embrace.

"It's okay, you're safe here," Lucia assured her.

"Why did you kidnap me?" Sigrun asked.

"It wasn't a kidnapping," Lucia returned. "It was a rescue."

"Rescue?"

"Mhmm," Lucia nodded. "You'll know everything soon enough." She sighed. "I'm happy to see you again, little sis. You've grown up so much."

Sigrun smiled. "I've missed you so much, Lu."

"It's almost time for supper, Sig," Lucia replied. "You'll have plenty to eat and get to meet the other sisters."

Lucia stepped back and gestured with her left hand towards the tunnel that left the cavern. Sigrun arose and walked forward, with Lucia following closely behind her. The tunnel turned about leftward and continued on for several paces, then forked forward and right. The tunnel was dry, well-lit, and tall enough to stand up in, though Sigrud still hunched. Lucia told her to go straight and then turn left at the next fork. As they came to the second fork, Sigrun thought she heard a voice echoing from farther down the right-hand path: she thought it sounded like singing.

In a little while, they came to another room that was larger than the one in which Sigrun had awoken. There were several crates and barrels in the room, which were being opened and from which food was being drawn and prepared. There was no table, but a fancy but thread-bare rug lay on the floor to which Lucia gestured. There were no chairs, so Sigrun and Lucia sat on the floor and partook of the food. The food was tasty and there was some good beer, but there was nothing hot or even warm.

"So what have you been up doing?" Lucia asked. "What brought you to Whiterun?"

"It was only a temporary stay," Sigrun replied. "I was on my way north for a job."

"A job?" Lucia asked. "What kind of job?"

"Delivery," Sigrun said.

"Aww, you're much better than that," Lucia replied, through a mouthful of mead. "You should be doing something much better, something that suited your talents as a woman."

"Well, it was certainly an adventurous job," Sigrun chuckled, trying not to think about the groping hands and leering smiles of the Dunmer slavers. "But I'm almost done."

"That's interesting," Lucia nodded.

"So, what about you?" asked Sigrun. "Have you been living here for twelve years?"

"Not here, specifically," Lucia answered. "I've been living in several places around Skyrim." She took a sip of her mug. "When I was twelve, I met my best friend Anita Black-Lock. She was practically a second mother to me; a beloved aunt, an older sister, an inspiration, a mentor, an idol to me. You probably don't remember her very much, you were young at the time."

Sigrun nodded, but her mind was busy. She distinctly remembered some furtive words exchanged between her mother, father, and Lucia years ago; something about a friend of hers about whom they were not happy. She did not say anything, but she marked the difference of reaction between what their parents and Lucia had said about her.

"Go on," Sigrun said.

"Well," Lucia continued. "When I was fifteen, Anita took me in and we began living on the run. We had help from several silent partners, but we were able to live free and unmolested for years. But it wasn't enough. Anita told me that it wasn't enough to just be free on our own; we had to find others, convince them to live free and unbound. So we built this group."

"So what is this, like a commune?" Sigrun asked.

"One might call us that," Lucia replied. "A commune of free sisters living on our own, free of the bonds and shackles of men and their laws."

"So there's no men here, at all?" asked Sigrun.

"None at all," Lucia shook her head.

"Why?" Sigrun asked.

"Because they're shit," Lucia returned. "Anita told me the truth. Throughout the whole history of Tamriel, men have done nothing but oppress and enslave women. Think about it: how many stories do you hear about women doing anything but being mothers? And whenever a woman becomes stronger than men, she is slandered as evil. Remember Potema?"

Sigrun chuckled. "That doesn't make any sense. What about the Hero of Kvatch? I've heard she was a woman."

"I'd like to believe she was one too," Lucia said. "But we'll never know for sure. That's what makes things worse: she might have been a woman, but because people can't stand a strong, independent woman doing things without the shackles of men, they erased her sex."

"What about the Divines?" Sigrun asked.

"Less than half are women," Lucia stated. "Even if people call Talos a god, which I don't, that still makes for fewer goddesses than gods. And what attributes do they have? Mara is the mother, Dibella is the whore, and Kynareth? Fucking wind! Absolutely useless. None of them strong or independent or anything useful or worthy of aspiration!"

"Mama used to talk about her adventures," Sigrun stated. "She said the people in Morrowind worshiped three gods they said were actually living among them in the flesh. Wasn't there a woman among them too?"

"One woman!" Lucia retorted, holding up one finger to punctuate her point. "But even Almalexia was given weak attributes: the Healing Mother, Lady of Mercy, and Mother Morrowind."

"I don't think motherhood is weak," Sigrun replied. "Mama raised all four of us, and that surely couldn't have been easy for her."

"Motherhood is a punishment!" Lucia insisted. "An invasive mongrel takes over our bodies for nine months, weakening us, turning us into piteous wrecks; we're basically imprisoned in our own bodies! All because some man wanted to use our bodies with no thought for what it would do to us, and no consideration, since they don't suffer anything for it!"

"But Mama went through that for us," Sigrun said. "And yes, I know that you and Jonna had different mothers, but they still went through the same thing for both of you."

"It wasn't their choice!" Lucia retorted. "Someone forced it upon them; a man. It's just one part of a bigger scheme, as Anita told me. They keep us down because they know that we can rule them, and we _should_ rule them!"

"Is that what Black-Lock told you?" Sigrun asked. "Because Mama and Papa never said anything like that."

"Mjoll was a strong woman," Lucia said. "Who was enslaved by that man who was your father."

"How can you say that about Papa?!" Sigrun exclaimed. "He took you in when you were literally thrown into his lap!"

"And I never asked for his self-righteous pity," Lucia returned. "Whatever he might have been to you, he is still a man, and driven by only one thing. You'll see it in due time; Anita opened my eyes to this truth before I was ever enslaved."

Sigrun was not happy with what Lucia had said about her father. But she did not press the matter, for the food was still good and she was still buzzed with euphoria over finding her sister again.

"So what happened with Anita?" Sigrun asked.

Lucia's countenance fell. "She died. She took sick when I turned eighteen and just wasted away. I sought out every physician and healer from the seven holds and beyond; they weren't able to help her. But I never forgot what she told me: that I should make a safe space for women to be free from the shackles of men and their laws. So I made this commune of free women, and we've remained free and outside of the law for years ever since."

"So what do you do, here?" Sigrun asked. "Do you just live by yourselves?"

"More or less," Lucia answered. "Several scores of women stay here, more coming day by day. We do not sow or reap or build anything for ourselves: those things are the work of servants. We take what we want from men and the holds."

"You're bandits..." Sigrun muttered, but it was loud enough to be heard.

"That's what men call us," Lucia said, with venom in her voice. "But we wear the word like a badge of pride. We live to turn their perfect little society upside down, to give men chaos and strife in return for what they've done to us."

"Strife..." Sigrun returned. "You...you're the Sisters of Strife?"

"That's one name we've been called," Lucia stated. "Others include Boethiah's B*tches, the Cunts of Chaos, among other things. But we wear them all with pride."

"You're outlaws!" Sigrun retorted. "We've faced some of your followers before. They tried to rob us."

"That's not true," Lucia shook her head. "The sisters would never have assaulted women. And if we're outlaws, it is because we oppose the oppressive laws of men."

"What do you have against laws?" Sigrun asked. "Aren't laws supposed to protect people?"

"Laws are made to keep people in line, especially women," Lucia returned. "You know this to be true, don't you, especially if you've been to Whiterun? You must have seen the bodies hanging from the walls of the city, bodies of women! Who are being protected by the laws that are being passed by the Emperor, the worst of men? If the weapons ban weren't in affect, women could be armed against their male oppressors: but instead, the Emperor punishes the people of Skyrim because of some pathetic grudge he has against the Nords!"

Sigrun nodded. Lucia's words made sense, especially considering that she had seen the bodies as Lucia had said. Still, she was not entirely convinced of her older sister's focusing on hating men.

"So what do you do instead?" asked Sigrun.

"We have agents in all of the seven holds," Lucia said. "Hiding in plain sight, play-acting as weak, passive women. They inform us about the injustices in society, and we act upon them. We rescue women from their lives of slavery and set them free as sisters. They're so grateful, they elect to join us in our struggle."

"Your struggle?" Sigrun asked.

"The ultimate eradication and enslavement of all men in Skyrim," Lucia stated. "Our first strike is Riften. Just a month ago, a coup was quietly carried out. Runa Fair-Shield was deposed and a man was set up in her place! The Rift is weak: there's bound to be chaos from the transition, the so-called 'Sons of Skyrim' are over-extended and can do nothing, the Imperial Legion doesn't go there, and the northern border is under threat from the Dunmer slavers. We're perfectly set to take it over and claim it in the name of the sisters of strife."

"And what will you do when you're done with this?" Sigrun asked. "Kill all the men in the city?"

"No, of course not!" Lucia returned.

"But you just said your goal is to eradicate and enslave all men!" Sigrun reasoned.

"We want peace and safety in Skyrim," Lucia said, her voice calm and sweet. "And the only way that's going to happen is if men are reigned in from the evil they carry out on all people, not just women."

"But you said..."

Lucia sighed. "I see you've believed the lies that you've been told. Well, maybe if you spend a few days among the sisters, you will see what we truly are and how we are truly what's best for Skyrim."

"Am I...a prisoner here?" Sigrun muttered.

"What? No!" laughed Lucia. "No, you're free to come and go as you please. I'd like you to stay, of course. After all, you're my sister, right? And I love you! This is only the beginning."

Lucia smiled, but there was something off about it. Sigrun did not want to believe it, but that smile seemed false: as though Lucia was forcing herself to smile against her natural desire.

After they had finished, Lucia led Sigrun back to the room where she had arisen. Here she found her blanket and most of her supplies, but no sword or shield. Lucia kissed her on the cheek and bid her goodnight, then went to go to her own room. Sigrun wrapped herself in her blanket and snuggled up against the rock and sand wall of the cave, pondering the irony of why her weapons were not returned. Slowly she slipped into a restless sleep and knew no more.

* * *

Her eyes were blinking in the rising sun. Sigrun realized that she was standing once again on the plains of Whiterun. North the mountains were covered in snow, and there was a second light shining in the east that was not the sun. The sound of clanking armor and footsteps in the deep turf behind and to her right told her that she was not alone. She turned about, expecting to see Jonna or the red-haired man. What she saw instead was something that perplexed her greatly.

It was a woman with dark hair, but it was not Lucia. Instead, the woman had a full head of hair and seemed a good deal older; almost the same age as her mother. She was clad in steel armor, with a shield upon her back and a sword on her belt. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or something else, but the woman seemed to shimmer for a moment: she seemed to appear younger, and blond-haired. But the vision passed almost as soon as it had appeared and the older woman spoke.

"What do you think Sigrun..." she asked.

The dream ended with Sigrun awaking with more questions than answers. Soon enough, one of the other "sisters" appeared in the cave where Sigrun slept. She was uncovered and her head was completely shaven. Her face, however, was covered in ritualistic scarring that left her looking harsh and unlovely. Sigrun was taken aback by the ghastly visage, and wondered what horrible thing had happened to her, and if it had been Lucia who had rescued her from some terrible fate and brought her to live in peace and safety? Surely she wanted to believe this, her heart still loyal toward her sister.

"You've been called to dinner," the scarred woman said to Sigrun.

Sigrun nodded, then rose to her feet. She had been given no water to wash her face or hair, as was the wont of all Nords, despite what the folk of Cyrodiil and Alinor and Morrowind may say. But she did not protest: it had been a while since she had a good meal and the last night's meal had only whetted her appetite. She followed the scarred woman through the tunnels to the same room where she had eaten supper. There were other women here, standing about or seated around Lucia, eating food already. When Lucia saw Sigrun approach, she rose from her place, embraced her, and planted a kiss on her cheek. Sigrun was surprised at this, but made no protest. Upon Lucia's face was a more genuine smile than had been seen last night.

They ate their morning meal together, which was also cold as had been the meal of the night before. There were no words spoken between Sigrun and Lucia, but some idle chatter passed between the other women gathered here. Sigrun felt particularly out of place: these women seemed to have known each other for years, and here she was, a stranger, made to feel especially cast out from among them. As she looked upon their faces, she noticed that they were all so scarred as the other woman had been. Yea, with the exception of Lucia, they were all ritualistically scarred. Their hair, also, was in various differences: some had only a side shaved, some both sides, some had the forward half shaved, other the back half, some were completely bald, and some had a full head of hair but cut so short that they could easily have passed for a veteran of the Imperial Legions.

After a while, Sigrun spoke up at last. "Lucia? What happened to your, um, sisters?"

"What do you mean?" Lucia asked.

"Well," Sigrun said with a hint of discomfort. "Their faces, they've been..."

"The scarring?" Lucia returned. "Oh, they choose that for themselves."

"Choose?" Sigrun exclaimed.

"Yes," Lucia nodded. "Those of our sisters who have proven themselves in battle, or in their devotion to the cause, have their faces ritualistically scarred. This shows their total devotion to the sisterhood, that they have turned their backs on men for good. They choose it of their own free will."

"Is that so?" Sigrun asked.

As they were eating, there was a sound heard again echoing from somewhere deeper within the caves. Only now Sigrun knew that it was not the sound of laughter: it was a cry of pain. She noticed that none of the others seemed to be taking any heed of the sound: indeed, they did not so much as stir in their seats or turn their heads towards the noise. Even Lucia continued eating without a single sign of care.

"What was that?" Sigrun asked. No one gave her so much as a glance in answer. "Sounds like someone's in pain. Do you know where that's coming from?" Their response was the same. The cries came again, this time with added shouts of "No! Please, don't!", repeated over and over again, until they were lost in a high-pitched, agonizing wail of despair.

"Are you really just going to sit there and do nothing while somebody suffers?"

There was once again no answer. Sigrun arose from her seat, but the others around her rose up with her, facing her as though they would bar her way.

"Let me pass," Sigrun said.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, sis," Lucia said. "Terribly sorry."

"But there's someone in pain!" Sigrun retorted. "Don't you want to help them?"

"Tell me, sister Hecate," Lucia said to a bald Breton woman. "Do you hear anything?"

"Nothing, Number One," Hecate replied.

"Anyone else?" Lucia asked. "Does anyone hear any noises? Any cries of alarm?" Her querries were met with silence. She then turned to Sigrun, a smile on her face. "There, you see? Nothing. Now, then, I have some things to attend to, so you'll pardon me if I leave you in the middle of breakfast. Eat up, there's plenty for everyone. I will speak with you later today, when I have more time." She then rose from her place and, walking over to Sigrun with a pained smile on her face, placed her arm around her shoulder, and whispered into her ear:

"I don't think I need to tell you how dangerous it is to claim to be hearing voices that aren't there. One would think you've been among men too long, and it's starting to affect your mind." She playfully slapped Sigrun's shoulder, then went on her way.

Sigrun returned to her meal and ate quietly. The other sisters remained with her, eating in silence or engaging in small-talk among themselves. None of them spoke to Sigrun, or gave her any regard, unless she tried to leave to investigate the screams. These carried on for a while, then faded out altogether. After they had finished, Sigrun was ushered out of the room, despite her offers to clean up after herself.

"Such work," sister Hecate told her. "Is beneath a woman."

For the rest of that morning, Sigrun remained in her room. She had a feeling that, having found Lucia again, she should be on her way back home to tell her family where she could be found: if she even knew where here was, that is. Also she was separated from Jonna, and despite their falling out, she was determined to find her again and make amends. Therefore she spent the rest of her morning going through her supplies: everything seemed to be there except for the food that Roggi had given them. She could have sworn that he gave out equal portions to her and to Jonna, but couldn't remember eating or discarding all of them between leaving Mara's Eye Pond and here.

At noon, another sister had appeared and summoned her for the luncheon. She followed her to the same room, where there was food prepared for the afternoon meal. The remnants of breakfast were nowhere to be found; which was remarkable, considering the number of sisters who had partaken and how much of a mess they had made. The food was good, but the company was no better than it had been at breakfast.

One of the sisters seated across from Sigrun was eating a roast chicken and throwing the bones behind her back. Sigrun caught, out of the corner of her eye, what appeared to be a small hand reaching out from behind some barrels towards one of the bones. Her curiosity got the best of her, but instead of making a scene of getting up and investigating, she instead cleared her throat and said: "I need to...uh, relieve myself. Where do you do your business?"

"The one to the left," one of the sisters replied, pointing towards the end of the room, where there were two tunnels leading away, with one going left and another going right.

Sigrun thanked her, then took her leave of them to go down the left-ward tunnel. It wound around a corner into a room with some large, foul-smelling chamber pots. Once she was sure that she was out of sight, she carefully crept back into the room. None of the other sisters seemed to notice her. With this, she softly made her way over to the stack of barrels. There, to her surprise and sorrow, she found a small boy hiding behind the barrels, huddled up with his knees underneath his chin. He was dressed in rags and was gnawing on discarded chicken bones, trying to find any morsel that had been forgotten.

Suddenly one of the sisters shouted: "You're not supposed to be here!" Sigrun was startled by the sound, but the boy wept and hid himself. One of the sister left the table and walked over to the barrels. Then, taking him by the hair on his head, she dragged him up to his feet; then she struck him across the face with her fist and, seizing him by the neck, led him out of the room before Sigrun could protest.

"What the hell was that?" she finally asked, once the boy had been removed. There was no response. "Who was that boy? Why was he being treated so roughly?" Again there was only silence. "Wait, wh..." Sigrun stammered. "Why was he not supposed to be here? What is it that you don't want me to see?" There was again nothing. Sigrun looked down at her plate, but did not feel hungry at the moment. Instead she rose up and turned to go back to her room.

"Maybe Number One is right," one of the sisters spoke up. "Maybe you _have_ been around men too long."

Sigrun dismissed this, and went her way.

* * *

Back in her cave, Sigrun was more than anxious to be up and about. Despite what she had been told by her sister, she felt truly and deeply imprisoned. She wanted to know where that boy had gone, why he was not supposed to be here, and why he had been treated so poorly. The scream also hadn't left her mind entirely. She made a last second inventory of what she carried, placed it in a crevice of the cave that put it out of sight, then began exploring the tunnels.

The one that she had first found led back to where they had supped. She went back and tried one of the forks from that tunnel. It went to a large supply room where many blankets were stowed in rolled bundles; this she assumed must be where the others slept. It seemed cozier than her cave, for there were also unlit candles sitting on tables or in niches carved from the rock. There was also a hole in the roof that led up to the sky, and at the bottom of that hole were the scorched remains of small camp-fires. This must be their hearth, where they would keep warm, she thought to herself. There were several tunnels, she saw, that had doors barring the rooms beyond. These doors were all secured by locks, to which she had neither the key nor the skill to pick without one.

As she was going her way, she thought she could hear voices echoing in the tunnels. Some voices talking, others laughing, but there were some that were not so innocent and jovial: there were some whimpers of sorrow, or tears in between fearful mutterings. One of those sorrowful voices sounded near at hand. Sigrun made her way towards the voice, following it down a rather long, dark, and dreary tunnel. There were other tunnels branching off into the darkness, but there was no light in them to illuminate what they held. With one hand feeling along the walls, Sigrun followed the tunnel, through each of its tributaries, until at last her hand passed out into emptiness and there was no tunnel beyond. Here she could hear the sound of moaning and crying from somewhere before her.

"Hello?" she asked.

"I know you're there," a voice responded. It was a woman's voice, but the voice was racked with sorrow, dread, and despair.

"Where are you?" Sigrun asked.

"Stay away!" the voice cried, and a sound of shuffling was heard.

"I'm not going to hurt you!" Sigrun replied.

"What more can you possibly take from me?" the voice asked, her voice breaking in tears. "What more can you possibly do to me that you haven't done?"

"What are you talking about?" Sigrun asked.

"You fucking brigands!" the woman screamed. "All the things you did to me."

"Did..." Sigrun muttered. "Wait, you...you were the one screaming? What did they do to you?"

"Like you don't know!"

"I don't, I really don't."

"I had a family!" wept the woman. "I had a husband who loves me, despite the lies you b*tches spoon-fed into my ears. And you killed them in front of my eyes! And then you..." She wimpered. "...you tortured me!"

"What?" gasped Sigrun.

The woman was about to speak, but a distant sound silenced her. Sigrun heard it as well; the sound of boots upon the dry earthen floor. Then came the orange flicker of a lit torch being held aloft. Turning around, Sigrun saw Lucia standing behind her, flanked by two bald sisters with torches in hand.

"Lucia," Sigrun asked. "What the hell is this?"

"An unfortunate event," Lucia replied, her voice cold and uncaring. "She had lived too long among men, and as a result had become deluded by their lies, thinking to incur their favor by hating and abusing herself: it's sickening."

"Oh, that's sick?" the woman wimpered. "You groped me, you sick, twisted b*tch!"

"Oh, listen to you, sister-to-be!" Lucia said, rolling her eyes. "Parroting the lies of men. They made those rules of decency and propriety to keep us in line. The pain will cease once you accept the truth, you know that."

"Pain?" Sigrun gasped. "Sis, what did you..."

"No no no, that's nothing," Lucia dismissed, with a wave of her hand. "It's all for the cause. Come now, sister of mine. All will be answered."

Lucia put her hand upon Sigrun's shoulder, but now the grip was icy cold and without any feeling of sorority or warmth. She then led Sigrun before her, with the two other sisters taking up the rear. They walked back down the dark tunnel and came into the more hospitable tunnels. At one branch, there was a locked door. Lucia removed the key and opened the door. She then gently pushed Sigrun inside and whispered instructions to the other sisters before turning around to her.

The room itself was a spacious cavern, with a hole in the ceiling for light, and many candles burning brightly in carven alcoves. In the middle of the room was an exquisite bed, with a long wooden box lying next to it. The cave looked like the room of someone very important, for there was no shortage of fine wooden furniture, or books, or things of gold and silver, or of gorgeous tapestries hanging upon the walls, or rich rugs upon the floor.

"What's that box, sis?" Sigrun asked. "Are you going to kill me and bury me?"

"Oblivion, no!" Lucia returned. "I just wanted to explain everything to you."

"What," asked Sigrun. "About the woman in your dungeon who said that you killed her family and molested her?"

"We saved her, sis," Lucia said. "She was being oppressed and abused by her so-called family, and we liberated her."

"She said you tortured her!" Sigrun retorted.

"Oh, sis," Lucia rolled her eyes. "Spare me this ridiculous charade of self-righteous sympathy. What is torture to one person is perfectly acceptable to another. That's just the way life is; embracing all the little paradoxes equally with open arms."

"But she said you groped her!" Sigrun stated. "Did...oh, gods, did you rape her?"

Lucia threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, sis, you really are naive. Women can't rape, only men can do that."

"Then what did you do to her?"

"Relax, it was just a little fun," Lucia replied dismissively.

"Fun? For whom was it fun?"

"Does it matter?"

"You hurt her!"

"If it makes her recognize," Lucia replied, stone-faced and serious. "That men are the monsters, that she has been living her life in an abusive state of mind, and will help her on the path to liberation, it is worth it."

"That's terrible!" Sigrun exclaimed.

"Says who?"

"Says me!" Sigrun firmly stated. "What you're doing, torturing a woman, killing her family and husband before her eyes, that's just evil!"

"Good, evil?" chuckled Lucia. "It's all the same. Just words, ideas, meaningless things made by the male sex to keep us in line and protect their fragile egos. Rather than embracing the truth, they make up words that they can use to justify their insecurities and keep us under their thumbs."

"Gods above, Lu! What madness has done this to you?"

"It is not madness!" Lucia sternly stated. Sigrun made a start, and Lucia backed down, composing herself before continuing. "It's not madness, it's the truth. My dear, beloved Anita opened this to me when we first made acquaintance all those years ago. And ever since then, I've been happy and free."

"You speak of freedom, of happiness?" Sigrun asked. "But what about the happiness and freedom of the woman in your dungeons?"

"Oh, please," Lucia groaned, rolling her eyes.

"What about the little boy in the dining hall?"

Lucia turned to her step-sister. "What little boy?"

"Today at lunch," Sigrun replied. "There was a little boy in the dining hall. He was practically beaten out of there once your sisters saw him."

"You weren't supposed to see that," Lucia vaguely replied.

"Sis, are you...is he being kept here as a slave?"

"He's a male, it's what he deserves."

"He's a child!"

"A child who will grow into a man!" Lucia retorted. "But even youth is no excuse for his culpability. If we hadn't taken him in, we would have had to kill him eventually. We're doing a profound favor to him."

"By keeping him as a slave?" Sigrun asked, disgust growing in her heart like a cancer.

"By teaching him his rightful place in the world that is to come," Lucia stated. "This way, he will grow to be a useful subject, doing all those things that are beneath women. He will survive, which is more than I could say if he was 'free' to rape and abuse women, as he certainly would do."

"How many more boys have you ripped from their families and made as your slaves?"

"Not enough." Without warning, Sigrun lashed out and punched Lucia in the face. Perhaps it was her absence from Jonna, which made her more aggressive and decisive, or the fact that her beloved older sister was standing here, proud of her monstrous actions. But something within her snapped.

"I'll let that one slide," Lucia said, wiping blood away from her lips. "Because I've decided that it's time for you to have your mind opened. Isn't that right, Anita?" With that, and much to Sigrun's surprise, Lucia walked away from her sister and over to the long wooden box. From the chain that hung upon her neck and into her bosom, Lucia pulled out a key with which she opened the box. From out of it issued the most foul odor Sigrun had ever smelt. So odious was it that she instinctively held her hands over her nose. Then, to Sigrun's dismay and disgust, Lucia reached into the box and propped up something that was clearly the source of the foul smell.

Within the wooden box were the remains of what had once been a human. It had rotted so badly that little remained of what it had originally been, save for dried skin stretched over ancient bones and rotting hair. The eyes had long ago sunken in and the mouth was left hanging open in a jarrish, torn gash.

"What is that?" Sigrun asked.

"This is Anita," Lucia replied, undisturbed by the body or, apparently, by the smell.

"You...you kept her in a box?" Sigrun asked.

"In my room!" Lucia added with a smile that turned Sigrun's stomach.

"Why?" Sigrun exclaimed in shock.

"I told you before," Lucia answered. "Anita was my world, my light, my goddess. I couldn't bear to hide her away in the cold, hard ground. So, with the help of some...connections of mine who were alchemists, I had the body embalmed and preserved here in my bedchamber for all time. That way Anita will always be with me, won't you, love?" With that, Lucia placed her arm around the decrepit shoulders of the skeleton and kissed the rotten flesh around the ragged mouth of the skeleton. A shudder of disgust and revulsion flowed through Sigrun's body as she remembered Lucia's hand upon her shoulder when they were reunited, and the kiss she had planted on her cheek the night before.

"Is there something wrong?" Lucia asked, noticing Sigrun's disgust.

"Wrong?" Sigrun asked, her voice rising in wrath. "Wrong? What you're doing here is far beyond simply wrong! Gods, if you loved Anita so much, why would you not rather respect her rotting bones and leave them at peace? What you're doing is no better than the work of a necromancer!"

"Oh, there you go again, with your rules and laws of propriety," Lucia sighed, placing the body back into the box and sealing the lid. "So you have been taught to say by the man you call father. Bah!" She rose to her feet, taking a step closer to Sigrun. Having witnessed what she had just seen, Sigrun took a step back.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, sis," Lucia said, a smile on her face. "I won't hurt you."

"You have hurt me," Sigrun returned. "Your words against our father have hurt me."

"'Our father,'" mocked Lucia. "He was not my father! My father died before you were born!" Her eyes seemed to be welling with tears at these words.

"He took you in, dammit!" Sigrun replied. "He treated you like family!"

"Family," scoffed Lucia. "Let me tell you about 'family.' When my real mother died, my aunt and uncle kicked my ass to the curb; they said that I was a useless good-for-nothing! Your precious father and mother, the ones you think so highly about? They gave me an ultimatum! They demanded that I cut all ties with Anita or they would kick me out as well!"

"That's not true!" Sigrun returned.

"You know what?" Lucia continued, without acknowledging Sigrun's reply. "I'll let you in on a little secret, one that has been kept from you your whole life. When you were nothing but a parasite, draining the life from your mother's body, there was another man. One who offered to be to me as a father, and to her as a husband. When he learned about you, he tried to have you killed before you were born. Now if your mother and father were as good as you say they are, why wouldn't they tell you this? Why would they hide the truth from you, their precious first-born daughter?"

With that, Lucia leaped forward and pushed Sigrun up against the wall, with one hand upon her right wrist and the other seizing her neck. She leaned in for a kiss, but Sigrun's left hand grabbed Lucia by her long black hair and pulled her face away from hers. The right hand left Sigrun's neck, as it sought for the hand that seized her hair, and with that Sigrun's knee made contact with Lucia's stomach. Doubling over in pain, she loosened her grip on Sigrun's right wrist. Now free, Sigrun stepped back away from her step-sister and tried to find herself a fast way to the door. Unfortunately, Lucia was far too close to the door to make flight an option, and the door was shut.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sigrun asked.

"Oh!" Lucia returned, a little bemused. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come on so strong."

"Come on so strong?" Sigrun returned. "Lu, you're my sister!"

"So?"

"So?!" Sigrun exclaimed. "It's wrong for kin to do that together."

"Oh, again with the rules of men!" Lucia sighed. "Besides, the Imperials in Cyrodiil already think you Nords sleep with your own 'kin', as you say it. Who's to say they're wrong?"

"You're my sister!" Sigrun shouted, slower, feeling in her wrath that Lucia hadn't heard her the first time.

"Not by blood," Lucia replied, as though that were to make it better.

"Still, you're a woman!" Sigrun said.

"And proud of it," Lucia returned with a smile.

"You don't understand," Sigrun continued. "I don't do that with women."

"So?"

"What do you mean, 'so?'" Sigrun asked, sounding more and more disgusted.

"What, are you going to tell me," Lucia asked. "That you like men? You're sixteen, how many men have you fucked?"

"That's not any of your business," Sigrun returned.

"How many?" Lucia insisted.

"None," Sigrun replied.

"There, you see?" Lucia asked. "How do you know that you like men when you haven't even fucked one? You don't know the humiliation, the pain, the shame, the degradation, and outright horror that a woman goes through, in mind and body, when she is fucked by a man!" She then held out her hands and softened her voice. "Now come here, sis. It's alright, it's perfectly harmless."

"You had me pinned up against the wall with your hand on my throat!" Sigrun retorted. "That's not harmless!"

"I was just a little overzealous, that's all," Lucia returned. "Come on, it's alright. I won't hurt you, I couldn't even if I tried. Women know what other women want, and can please them in a powerful and dignified way that a man simply can't."

"Is that what Anita told you?" Sigrun asked, not buying any of what Lucia had said.

"Sis..."

"No, don't you 'sis' me anymore!" Sigrun shouted angrily. "You fucking tried to rape me! And don't say you didn't, because I know you did. I've seen the very actions you did to me in this room carried out by the Dunmer slavers in Eastmarch. Because we're sisters and I value family much higher than you, I have not defended myself against you as I should. But now you will release me from this room and let me go my way, or by Talos, if you try any of that shit on me again, I will break your hands and bite off your tongue, that you may never molest anyone ever again!"

Lucia seemed to get the message now. Now she seemed to become sad, almost grim.

"It's sad, you know," she said, "I had expected to win you over peaceably. But, seeing as you're so indoctrinated, you leave me no choice."

"No choice but what?" Sigrun asked, gasping from her loud warning.

"Sisters, to me! At once!" Lucia shouted.

The door was opened and the two sisters who had stood guard outside this whole time now entered the room. They seized Sigrun by the arms and pinned her against the wall. Fearful of what was about to happen, Sigrun kept kicking with her legs, to dissuade Lucia from closing in on her.

"Lies!" Sigrun shouted. "Your whole sisterhood is a lie!"

"Such a shame he didn't kill you when he had the chance," Lucia tutted. "You know what, Sigrun, I'm going to let you in on another little secret? This is something I never told anyone else except Anita." She walked over to Sigrun and looked down upon her with resentment in her eyes.

"I hate you," she said. "I've always hated you. I hated you from the moment I held you in my arms, all those years ago, as a little screaming, crying brat. I hated you because you stole Mjoll away from me. After you were born, I was nothing; just a charity case, something your mother and father showed affection to because they felt sorry for me, because it made them feel good about themselves. Then they brought that little b*tch Jonna to live with us, and she stole your affection from me. Then that little shit Bjorn was born and your father had a son to carry on his name, and I was even less than nothing."

"That's a lie and you know it!" Sigrun retorted. "I never loved Jonna more than you, I loved you both equally. I even left home just to look for you."

"And now you've found me," Lucia returned. "And I've found you; and now I must break you. It may take minutes, if you are weak and wise, or days if you're foolish and hungry for pain. But in the end, I've broken them all. When I have broken you, you will see things as I do. You will come to hate men as I hate them. You will serve the sisters without question. You will have affection for only me, and when _that_ happens..." She smiled.

"When that happens, you will be free." She gave the order and the two sisters carried Sigrun out of her room.

* * *

 **(AN: I'm still here, just trying to juggle time between looking for work, recording my next album, playing _World of Warcraft Burning Crusade 2_ [aka. _Legion_ ], and writing this. I'm definitely in the mood to write some for Warcraft, as my story about my Priest alt showed. Though getting started with an interesting story is still a challenge. And I'd rather do a lot of smaller stories and not just jump right into the stuff that would be happening now in Legion, since it works better with the story that way in the long run.)**

 **("Omg, stop hogging the word count with an unrelated author's note!" you say. Well, I'm specifically being a bit tight-lipped about what I share story-wise. Both because, though I have a rough outline of what I want to have done in this story, I'm mostly flying by the seat of my pants, and because I don't want to give away things that will be revealed in time in the story [which I do plan on completing before this year is out])**


	14. Ysgramor’s End

**(AN: I've noticed that a lot of my chapters end with 'and they blacked out and knew no more' only to have them wake up and be kidnapped. So this time there is a bit of a shake-up to that tired trope.)**

 **(Also something that doesn't make sense: i've heard a lot of _Skyrim_ fans criticize the Greybeards for keeping out of the affairs of the civil war, but no one has really put the Companions' feet to the flame over the same issue.)**

* * *

 **Ysgramor's End**

Jonna had not been knocked unconscious, but was being lifted up off the ground and carried away by strong arms. Panicking by reason of the terrifying words and madness of Jarl Nelkir, Jonna kicked as fiercely as her legs could. But they did not respond to her attempts to free herself. Outside she could hear loud noises rising up around her, the sounds of shouting and chanting of protest. Little of what was being said she actually understood, for those who carried her did not wait long enough for her to catch any hint of words. Suddenly there was the sound of a door slamming shut and the noise of the crowds became somewhat less loud. Those that carried her continued to carry her, and she felt herself descending and the noises outside becoming more and more distant. At length she was placed down upon the stone cold floor and the sack removed from her head.

She was inside a room somewhere underground: there were no windows, the walls were made of stone, and the chief source of light came from torches hanging upon the walls. It was not a dungeon, but certainly seemed as grim. Beside her she saw two large Nords, both dressed in armor and carrying axes upon their belts. Before her stood two people, a man and a woman. The man was about average height for a Nord, a touch on the thin side, with his long beard and dark hair streaked with many strands of gray. The woman was about the same age as Mjoll, but was of lighter frame. Red was the color of her hair, which flowed in long, bloody rivulets down her back and shoulders.

"Where am I?" Jonna asked. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Jonna Jordisdottir, I presume?" the red-haired woman asked. "By Ysgramor, you look exactly as you were described. You will pardon my methods of rescuing you, but these are difficult times. The Fighters Guild have sent many spies into our midst, and we've only caught three of them; therefore I must be cautious."

"Answer my questions!" Jonna retorted, in no mood for pleasantries.

"Quite a temper on you!" the woman said. "I like that. They said you wouldn't be very cooperative."

"Who said that?"

"Your mother," said the woman.

Jonna gasped. "How do you know my mother?"

"First things first," the red-haired woman said. "I am Aela, called the Huntress and Harbinger of the Companions. That should also answer where we're at. As for what I want, we received a letter shortly after you left Whiterun the first time. Your mother had gotten wind of your departure and wanted us to watch after you."

"To take me back home, I wager," Jonna returned.

"Vilkas, read her the letter," the woman said to the man at her side. He removed from a desk nearby a letter, from which he read.

 _To the Harbinger of the Companions,_

 _My daughter Jonna has left home in search of glory and honor. It would be a great honor if she could join the Companions. Let this letter be an introduction for my daughter and a tale of her skill in combat._

"The rest," Vilkas said. "Describes your stature and appearance, as well as your skill with sword, axe, and shield."

"My ma wants me to join the Companions?" Jonna asked, her voice catching.

"Vilkas," Aela said to the man. "We will begin the training tomorrow before first light. For now, find this newblood a place to sleep, if there are any empty beds left to fill."

The man nodded, then ordered for Jonna to follow him. He led her back down the hall into a small room with two beds on either side. The man whose name was Vilkas gestured to one of the beds.

"This one's yours," he said. "Your bunk-mate is a dark elf named Galmis."

"Where is he?" Jonna asked.

"Currently on an errand for the Companions," Vilkas stated. "He won't be back for another day or two. Even errand-runners are being waylaid in the streets of Whiterun."

"Waylaid?" Jonna asked. "Waylaid by what?"

"Enemies," Vilkas vaguely stated. "They seem to come from all over these days. We thought our worst days were behind us when we drove the Silver Hand out from the eastern holds. Now it seems that they've survived, hiding in some vermin's nest, outliving their day. But they're not the only threats we face."

"What other threats?" Jonna asked.

Vilkas sighed. "Perhaps it's best that I tell you this, that you know what you're getting yourself into by joining us. The new Emperor has been eager to bring the Fighters Guild to Skyrim. This goes against years of tradition which the Empire has previously respected, even the Medan Emperors respected the tradition of the Companions!"

"Competition threatens tradition?"

"If it were only a matter of pride," Vilkas continued. "We would not be alarmed. The Companions are well established in Skyrim, and the people would support us. More than that, our names and the names of those that have gone before will outlast us. The problem is that the Fighters Guild is under the protection of the Empire, and we have another tradition of non-involvement in political affairs."

"Why is that?" Jonna asked.

"Long ago, the Companions fought in which ever cause, many times pitted one against the other. Mryfwiil the Withdrawn, one of our Harbingers of old, recognized that this would destroy the order, and so ordained that we would never be involved in political conflicts."

"So because the Empire protects the Fighters Guild," Jonna stated. "You're not even going to try to defend yourselves against their attempts to drive you out of Skyrim?"

"If we act," Vilkas stated. "It will destroy centuries of political non-involvement. The flood-gates would be opened and we would become sell-swords for everyone's political agenda. It would destroy the future of the Companions."

"Well, pardon me for saying this," Jonna returned. "But if half of the things I've heard about this Emperor are true, if you don't act, there won't be a future for the Companions."

"That may be," Vilkas returned. "And when the end comes, we will meet it with the same bravery that we have faced all the days of our lives." He nodded, bade her goodnight, then left. Jonna did not sleep, for the memories of her encounter with Jarl Nelkir were still fresh in her mind, and she distrusted every shadow in her chamber.

* * *

Some time before dawn, Jonna was overcome with a wearisome, fitful sleep, and slept long. When she awoke, she found that there was some commotion about; small groups would gather just outside the door of her room and mutter in worried tones among themselves. As Jonna's senses became more aware, she noticed that the topic of conversation was something going on just outside the doors of Jorrvaskr. She rose up from her bed and quickly dragged a comb through her messy hair before stepping out into the hallway to see the commotion. Even as she stepped out, the group before her door dispersed, heading up the stairs back into the main hall.

Just as she was looking about, a tall Nord with long, light brown hair came walking up to her. He seemed thoroughly average in appearance, despite his brown hair and beard, but as soon as he approached, Jonna's eyes doubled in size. The Nord man had not stepped too close to her, nor had he made a threatening gesture, nor issued words of insult, nor drawn a blade, nor even glared at her with his eyes, yet suddenly Jonna found that her blood was rushing, her eyes were nervously looking around as if for an escape, and her hand grasped nervously at her back for the haft of her axe.

"Hail, Companion," he greeted pleasantly. "Can you imagine all of this excitement?"

"What's going on?" Jonna blurted out in one breath.

"Something happening outside," he returned. "It's gotten everybody nervous..."

"I see," said Jonna. She spoke swiftly and curtly, as if to tell him that she wanted only to know an answer to her question and nothing more. She would broker no further discussion.

As soon as she had spoken, she turned her eyes away from the Nord and hurriedly made her way up the stairs along with the others. As she walked up the stairs, she wondered why she had suddenly behaved as such. The man who spoke to her had done nothing wrong, and she could not even use the previous night as an excuse, for he looked nothing like Jarl Nelkir. Yet she had suddenly and abruptly behaved with rudeness towards a fellow kinsman and Companion.

Up the door she went and heard a loud rushing of crowds just outside the hall. Turning towards the doors, she saw that there were armed guards behind the doors, with their hands upon their weapons, standing at the ready as if they were expecting a battle. Jonna made her way out the doors and saw there, before the hall of Jorrvaskr, nothing short of a stand-off. There were armed Companions standing guard outside the door, just as those who stood guard within the doors. Before them were Imperial soldiers, the only others in the city permitted their arms. Each had their shields raised up, as if to push back advance from the other, and stood within arm's reach of each other. Behind the shield wall of the Companions stood Vilkas and Aela the Huntress, while behind the Imperial lines stood a group of men bearing the colors of the Fighters Guild. In their midst was the Altmer that Jonna had seen when she had returned to Whiterun. Like before, he was speaking to any who would listen to him, as well as turning to address the leaders of the Companions.

"These stand in defiance of the laws of the Empire," the Altmer said. "Every day, in your town, among your children, they walk, bearing arms. How many more incidents like the one at Fendral's farm must we have before these lawless Nords bow to the laws of the Empire?"

"What's happening?" Jonna asked those Companions nearest the door.

"The Fighters Guild has been trying for months," Vilkas reminded her, raising his voice above the din of the crowds. "To drive us out of Whiterun."

"What is he talking about?" she asked. "What happened at Fendral's farm?"

"A knife-fight broke out," Vilkas said. "A boy was killed."

"Were the Companions responsible?"

"No," Vilkas returned. "But we've been blamed for it, as we never obeyed the Empire's weapon ban."

"...they think themselves above our laws!" the Altmer continued. "And what are they but a pack of mercenaries? Filthy sell-swords. They do not defend your people from threats, only insomuch as their hands are well greased. And now we hear even worse things than these! We hear that they will not even send one Companion to hunt down werewolves in the wilds! How can they be trusted to protect us from threats when they won't even carry out their purpose?"

"He speaks falsely!" Aela shouted in retort. "The Companions have always defended Whiterun, and all of Skyrim, from any threats to her people, especially from wild beasts."

"Ah, the red b*tch speaks!" the Altmer returned. "It is good that she speaks. I'm quite sure that she has other things to say for herself. Surely she will put to rest the rumors that have been reported in our ears, and the ears of our great Jarl Nelkir and the Imperial Legate."

"You talk a big game, elf," Aela said, turning towards the Altmer. "But you're a poor chooser of words. Best you watch your tongue."

"Behold!" the Altmer said, turning back to those assembled behind the Imperial soldiers. "How she threatens a member of the Fighters Guild! Such threats are to be expected of savage Nord clansmen, but not of loyal subjects of the Empire. Need I remind you all that the Guild is under the protection of the Empire, while the Companions have a long-standing oath of political non-involvement? An oath, I remind you all, that the Companions imposed upon themselves? Here then is a marvelous thing! A Nord's honor cannot abide threats, and yet the Companions dare not raise a hand against those under the protection of the Empire, be they the Fighters Guild or the Thalmor."

Jonna saw that the crowd seemed to regard his words with dull interest. The guards remained almost shield-to-shield with the Companions.

"Alas," the Almter continued. "It is an unfortunate truth that the Companions have no honor, being nothing more than a gang of brigands, extorting money from the good people of Skyrim to conceal the wicked pact they've made with the Daedra!"

"Vilkas!" Aela shouted. "Get the young-blood inside now!" Vilkas approached Jonna and placed his hand upon her shoulder.

"Get your hand off me!" Jonna shouted.

"Come now," Vilkas said. "There's nothing more to be heard here. Just more lies."

Vilkas led her back into the main hall, and sat her down upon one of the seats at the table, then took a seat across from her and sat down with her.

"I am sorry to inconvenience you," Vilkas said. "But you don't need to hear any of that."

"Excuse me?" Jonna asked. "First off, you were more than willing to share secrets with me right off when I first joined just last night. Remember that? I should know the worst that's in store for the Companions? What happened to that?"

"Things have become different very quickly," Vilkas reasoned. He then groaned. "Gods, I don't remember young-bloods being so damned entitled!"

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" Jonna retorted. "I think I deserve to know what's going on..."

"What do you deserve to know, hmm?" Vilkas asked, rising to his feet. "You haven't proven yourself to us, you have no name. For all we know, you could be an Imperial spy."

"Just what are you saying, sir?" Her utterance of 'sir' dripped with insubordination.

"What I'm saying," Vilkas replied. "Is that you need to show some patience and respect. You aren't owed anything, whether by reason of your sex or your kinship. You owe it to yourself and to your brothers and sisters in the shield to prove yourself. As for our secrets..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "...as for our secrets, there may come a time when you will have to be told just what those secrets are; maybe a time soon coming. But for now, you must be content. Our enemies are everywhere, as you saw just now; and they are eager to bring us down. Our secrets must remain hidden." He then turned to those other Companions gathered inside the door of the hall.

"Don't you have things to do, now?" he demanded. One by one they began to disperse, each heading their own way. Vilkas then called for one of the other Companions to approach him. He then turned to Jonna. "This kinsman will take you outside and test your skill with a sword..."

"No!" Jonna exclaimed. "Uh, I mean, I'd rather not, sir. I'd rather have a woman to fight with, if it's all the same."

Vilkas sighed. "Very well. I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Jonna followed an Imperial woman about a year younger than her out to the training courtyard behind the hall. For three hours they practiced with various weapons: first with the axe and shield, then the sword and shield, then the long-swords, and finally with single-handed short-swords. In each test, Jonna proved to be more than a match for the smaller-framed Nibenese woman. All the while, like a grim curtain to conceal the beauty of the outside world, the chanting of the mob and the long-winded speeches carried on.

As a fighter, Jonna knew better than to let herself be distracted by anything. However, after a particularly vigorous bout and the two of them rested upon their weapons to take wind, she would perk her ears in the direction of the mob and listen to what was being said. Though the din was loud, several words floated in amidst the hub-bub which her ears picked out: some of the words were known to her, such as Fighters Guild, Empire, Emperor, and Jarl Nelkir, but there were some words that were strange to her.

"Cato," Jonna said to her sparring partner. "Do you know who 'the Circle' is?" This had been one of the words she had heard, in reference to the Companions.

"The strongest and oldest members of the Companions," Cato replied.

"Who are they?" Jonna asked.

"Vilkas," Cato listed off. "Torvar, Arngorm, and Thorvald Grey-Mane. I think the Harbinger is part of the Circle too."

"Aela?" Jonna clarified. Cato nodded. "What do you know about them?"

"Well, Vilkas is quite well-spoken, for a Nord," Cato began. "Most new recruits go through him first, before being approved of by the Harbinger. No one quite knows much about Torvar, save those who know him. Spends most of his time drunk, as far as I know, and is a terror if ever roused from his stupor. Arngorm..." She whistled. "They say that he must have been part giant. Grew up in the Dragontail Mountains fighting Orcs as a child. Thorvald, on the other hand..." She hesitated.

"Yes?" Jonna asked.

"Far be it from me to speak ill of the most elite members of the Companions," Cato said, lowering her voice somewhat. "But there are some who say that the Companions' are nothing more than bandits; certainly they are not all so, but it is clearly the case with Thorvald Grey-Mane. The man is a traitor, from a family of traitors. They sided with the Stormcloaks during the Civil War, and he joined the Companions to escape the retribution that befell his family after the rebels lost."

"I heard his family was betrayed," Jonna retorted.

"One ill turn deserves another," Cato replied. "Now then, you've proven yourself well enough. Let's go find Vilkas."

* * *

In the end, Vilkas had little else for Jonna to do, and so she was allowed to wander about Jorrvaskr on her own. By now, however, the day was almost over and the crowds had dispersed. She overheard some of the Companions say that there was never a moment without the crowds of protest, and that the silence was unnerving to them. As for herself, she began to notice the sense of melancholia that had befallen her after her previous separation from Sigrun. She wondered where she was in all of Skyrim; possibly somewhere north, near Dawnstar, returning the sword. She hoped that, when morning came, she could negotiate with Vilkas to give her an assignment in the north, where perchance she might have the opportunity to find her.

Late that night, she returned to her room to find that her bunk-mate, the Dunmer Galmis, had not yet returned. She fell into her bed, uneasily with all the shadows in her room. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but all she could manage was to lay in bed for countless hours on end. No matter how much she tossed and turned, sleep continued to evade her. As she lay in bed, unable to sleep, she heard soft feet upon the stone-tiles of her bed. Turning around, she saw a figure approach the bed in the light of the little candle that rested upon the table nearby. Carefully she rose to her feet and clenched her hands as for a fight.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"No one," a male voice drawled.

"Are you Galmis?" she returned.

"Aye, sirrah," the drawling voice returned.

"You're back early," she noted. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere," he cryptically replied.

Jonna sighed and prepared to return to bed. But as she was crawling back into her bed, she heard a commotion far above, as though something was being broken. Curiosity got the better of her, and, as quietly as she could, she left the room and made her way across the hall. Up the stairs she went, and pushed open the door into the mead hall above the living quarters.

The roof was on fire. Fires had been started upon the outer hull of the roof, and in some parts it had been broken in and torches had been thrown into the hall, and were now catching fire to those things within. Outside faintly came cries and jeers of a mob.

Jonna was stunned for a brief moment at the sight, but something within her caused her to act. She ran back down the stairs and began crying in a loud voice "Fire! Fire!" The living quarters were angrily roused from their sleep, and Jonna quickly told them what was amiss. Some dismissed her warnings and returned to bed, while some curious ones investigated the hall and came running back in a panic, shouting for Vilkas or Aela. In a few moments, everyone knew that the upper hall was on fire.

At last Vilkas was roused and began to organize everyone, so that they would not be lost in the chaos of the fire. He gave orders for 'the Axe' to be brought with them, then had everyone leave the hall in groups of five, telling them to find a door and open it, with swords and axes if it were locked. Jonna barely had time to take up her things before she was swept up in a group that was rushing back up into the fire. By now, the hall itself was on fire; large burning planks had fallen down and caught the rest of the hall aflame. It was only a matter of time before the roof of the hall collapsed in on itself, burying the Companions inside the burning hall.

Five small groups were the first to make it out, with Jonna's being the last. Some tried to flee into the Wind District, but soon encountered the mob. There was a sound of weapons being drawn and cries and shouts, then they came fleeing back towards the reare of the hall. Two more groups exited the burning hall and came out into the training courtyard, where a small group of about thirty now gathered, some of them coughing from the smoke, others with hands on their weapons, and others looking to Vilkas to guide them. Aela was nowhere to be found.

"Everyone," Vilkas suddenly spoke up. "Follow me!"

Vilkas led the group around the back-side of the courtyard, up to the great Skyforge: it was a forge set atop a great stone plateau, at the foot of an ancient stone formation in the shape of an eagle. At the bottom of the plateau there was a small door set in the side that went into a chamber beneath the Skyforge. Into this chamber Vilkas ordered the Companions to enter. It didn't take long for the mob to notice them, and they attacked them with all ferocity. At Vilkas' order, a shield wall of those who were armed and armored enough to properly defend them arose, protecting the fleeing Companions. Jonna was among the press that was hurrying into the stone chamber, while at their left hand their shield-brothers were defending them from the mob. Even as Jonna entered into the stone chamber, she cast her eyes behind her as a great crashing sound was heard. The burning, blackened skeleton of the mead hall collapsed in on itself. Jorrvaskr had fallen.

The chamber was not very wide and soon they were all huddled in together, with no chance of escaping back out the way they had come. At the very last, Vilkas and two shield-bearing Companions came back through the entrance, weapons aimed forward in case the mob should try to take the tunnel. Outside they could hear cries of "Burn them out!", "Burn the dogs!", "Roast the monsters alive!" and other such calls.

"What do we do now?" one asked.

"There's a tunnel at the back of the chamber," Vilkas said. "It leads out of the city. Go, now! We don't have much time!"

There was in fact no time at all. Already the entrance to the chamber began to fill with light as torches and pieces of the burned hall were thrown before the chamber in a great heaping pile. Slowly, far too slowly, the stuffed Companions began to shuffle about, feeling for the tunnel. Smoke was already starting to billow into the chamber by the time the passage was found: the mob certainly fanning the smoke into the chamber with all their murderous vigor. By now the urgency was great, and people were pushing and shoving their way through the tunnel, trying to escape the smoke. Jonna must have trampled on at least two people in her way through the tunnel.

At last they emerged, coughing and sputtering, into the cold night air on the outside of the city wall. Above them, atop the great hill of Whiterun, they could see the light from the burning ruin and the smoke rising up therefrom. Vilkas tried to bring order to what was left of the survivors of the burning of Jorrvaskr: of the thirty that had escaped the fire, only seventeen now remained. Some had fallen to the mob in defense of the chamber passage, some had been trampled under foot, and, worse yet, some might have never made it out of the chamber.

Vilkas did not give them long to recover their breath before he ordered them to gird their loins and make their way eastward. He took the lead, with the last of the armed Companions about him. Jonna quickly made her way to his side, a few choice words coming to mind for him.

"So you wanna start telling me what that was about?" she asked. Vilkas did not respond. "My d...my step-da told me about that hall. It's been up ever since Ysgramor's day, and now it's nothing but ashes? Do you wanna tell me what's happening? I heard some of what those rioters were shouting, particularly about you and 'the Circle.' 'Kill the dogs', 'Roast the monsters alive'? What does all this mean?"

Vilkas made an angry sound that almost seemed like the low, threatening growl a dog makes against a threat.

"We've just escaped with our lives," he sighed. "Our purpose is to head east and then south, towards the Rift. Even with the new Black-Briar jarl, we should be relatively safe there."

"Safe?" Jonna asked. "What about the slavers in Eastmarch?"

"You forget," Vilkas said. "We're still the Companions. And we have Wuuthrad, the Axe of Ysgramor. No elf could stand before it."

"And what else do we have?" Jonna asked. "Dogs? Monsters? That's what they were calling us..."

"I can't tell you, dammit!" Vilkas returned, stopping and turning around to face Jonna.

"Why not?"

"Because..." he paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Because I don't know who I can trust. What you heard those people saying, none of them should have known. Someone has betrayed us, and for that, I can't tell you anything."

Jonna was about to protest that she hadn't told anything to anyone, but then into her mind came the craven face of Jarl Nelkir. What if he really did know all the secrets in Whiterun, and decided to let this secret slip into the ears of the mob? What if he knew because of her entry into the Companions?

These thoughts and others drifted through Jonna's head as they continued to walk. Their pace could not have been any faster, for they were weary without sleep and some of them were not trained in long forced marches, and others still were not accustomed to the cold nightly weather of Skyrim. They were moving too slow for Vilkas' liking, and every word out of his mouth was to urge them onward and faster. So they passed for several hours, slowly leaving the foot of the hill of Whiterun and passing over the farms and homesteads upon the plains. At last they came to the bridge that forded the White River. It was still dark, and the moons only gave off a little light. But in that light they noticed that somebody was upon the bridge before them.

More than one person, it seemed like a small company awaited them on the bridge, with several on horseback. Torches were lit by those upon the bridge, and in their light they caught the glint of steel-plated armor and the red of Imperial soldiers. The Companions halted at an order from Vilkas, refusing to make a move unless these newcomers moved first. They remained at a silent stand-off for several heavy minutes, until one of the horsemen from the other group slowly brought his horse forward to meet the Companions. Vilkas put his hand upon his sword hilt, but did not draw.

"Hail, sir," he greeted. "What is your business here?"

The rider did not speak as yet, but led his horse at a slow trot until he was now a spear's throw away from Vilkas.

"I have no business with you, good sir," Vilkas added. "But your company stands in our way. What would you have of us?"

"Jonna Jordisdottir," the mounted man spoke. An Imperial without mistake.

A couple of paces away from Vilkas, Jonna the name being spoken and gasped. But what made her even more incensed was when Vilkas walked back to her, taking his hand off his sword.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Jonna asked. "He's an Imperial soldier!"

"Yes, he is," Vilkas said. "And you know that we don't get involved in politics."

"But what about Thorvald Grey-Mane?" Jonna asked. "Didn't you shelter him?"

"That was the old Harbinger," Vilkas said. "And that is the reason he is no longer Harbinger. Now, then, if you please..."

"No!" insisted Jonna. "I'm a member of the Companions! You can't just let them take me!"

"The Companions do not get involved in affairs of state, woman," the mounted soldier, who was within earshot, stated. "If the Empire demands that we take one of your number, we can do it and we most certainly will. Now come along peacefully, or would you see your fellow shield-brothers slain on account of your insolence? There are Colovian knights in my company, as well as battle-mages. You would not last long."

Jonna made an angry noise. It seemed that fate was not kind to her; perhaps this was her punishment for how she had treated Sigrun and sundered herself from her. But threats from Imperial soldiers were not to be taken lightly, and unfortunately, it seemed, the Companions were not able, or not willing, to do anything. Nevertheless, she would have some fierce words with Vilkas if ever she got herself out of the hands of these Imperials.

"One condition," Jonna spoke up. "You will not lay a hand on these others while I'm with you. Once your business with me is over, you will release me back into their care. Agreed?"

The mounted man scoffed. "Stupid Nord, that's two conditions, not one! And I am under no obligation to agree to either of them."

"Agree to my terms," Jonna said. "Or fight me."

Again the mounted soldier laughed. "You would fight all of us by yourself?"

"Yes," Jonna returned, placing her hand upon the hilt of her axe and sword.

"You would die," the soldier stated.

"And speed my way to Sovngarde," Jonna replied, trying desperately to appear more threatening and intimidating than she felt inside. "But I say that if you wanted me dead, then would I not be dead already? I don't think you'll risk a fight. Now agree to my terms or fight me, what's it gonna be?"

The mounted man looked back at the Companions in the light of the torch he bore aloft. Vilkas shook his head, while the others stood there in a loose group. He then cast his eyes behind him, then turned back to Jonna.

"Our errand is dire," he said. "Very well, we shall agree to your terms. Come along, now, Jonna."

Slowly Jonna made her way toward the mounted man. He waited until she was beside him before falling in line behind her, walking his horse behind her, leading her forward towards the rest of his group. In the dim light, she noticed several other horsemen, standing at attention around a large carriage drawn by two horses. The horses of the carriage were clearly from Cyrodiil: scrawny things fit only for running fast. But she noticed also that some of the horsemen were knights in full plate armor: a humorous sight in Skyrim on any other day of less danger. These, however, were not riding the tiny horses of Cyrodiil, but the much larger, bulkier Skyrim horses. Presently, one approached from the carriage and before Jonna could speak a word, a black shroud was thrown over her head and she lost all sense of direction.

* * *

 **(AN: Kind of a cheat, but it will be significant in her next chapter.)**

 **(Some big things happening in this chapter, but at least now I'm somewhat back. It's been hell, being away from writing for this long. Sickness and you know the lot, blah blah blah, "we just wanna read your stories." It was difficult, getting back into the swing of writing and trying to remember all that i normally only commit to memory. The ideas for where this story is going to end up are getting crazier and crazier, and, in a manner, reflect my own journey into the _Elder Scrolls_ lore.)**


	15. A Breach

**(AN: My _Warcraft_ fics have brought me back to this website, so I thought that I would give to those who have been patiently waiting an update to this story! Yay!)**

 **(I will give you all a hint, which might give you an idea about what's happening in this chapter. The hint is this: the deeper i delved into the _Elder Scrolls_ lore, the weirder things got.)**

* * *

 **A Breach**

Sigrun struggled as best she could, but her two captors were too strong for her to break free. The tunnels were dark and there were so many twists and turns that, though she hadn't been knocked out, she soon lost any notion of where she was going. Still she struggled against her captors, hoping that she might find a weakness and be able at last to break free: it hadn't happened yet.

"Go ahead and...struggle!" one of her captors taunted. "It'll be that much easier to break you once you're worn out."

"Why not just knock me out?" Sigrun returned. "Make your jobs a lot easier."

"Shut up, b*tch!" the second shouted, punching Sigrun in the face and causing blood to coalesce at her mouth where she bit her lip upon the blow. "Number One wants you awake for every minute."

"Besides," the first one returned. "Even if you happen to break free, where are you gonna go? We know these tunnels better than you."

For the next several minutes, Sigrun was led through the dark tunnels, with no idea where she was going. More so than this, there was something strange happening all around her, which the guards seemed not to notice. Periodically the dark walls of the tunnels would give way to the amber fields of Whiterun, and Sigrun would see her companion with her: now it was Jonna, now an older woman with dark hair, now a man with red hair, and then another woman whom she did not recognize. A sharp pain tore through her stomach, as though she was being torn apart. The grass faded into dead, burned earth. Far away, on the tops of the mountains, a giant made of brass strode through the mountains, each foot echoing like the pounding strikes upon a great drum.

Suddenly a light appeared and Sigrun saw where she was being led to: the dungeons inside this cave system. The guards led her to a room with a wooden table, with one end stained with blood. Though she couldn't guess as of yet what they were going to do to her, she struggled against her captors. Two larger guards appeared from the shadows and seized Sigrun's feet: now she was incapable of freeing herself. The four guards dragged her kicking and shouting onto the table, holding her down despite her protests. From the shadows there appeared another figure; an old Dunmer woman with shaven head dressed as a priest. Her hands were stained with blood and there was an empty look in her dark red eyes: nothing lived there anymore, no pity, no remorse, no sympathy.

"You've got some spirit," she said, her cracked lips twisting into a crooked smile. "That's good. Breaking you will be quite enjoyable."

"Now now, sister," one of the guards replied. "Number One wants the honor of breaking this one first."

"Never thought she'd have a personal interest in my business," the old woman laughed. She then turned to Sigrun. "I wouldn't be getting too comfortable if I were you, poppet. There are plenty of ways we can have fun that won't spoil your usefulness to Number One."

With that, the old woman brought forth manacles from the floor, which she fastened about Sigrun's wrists and ankles, then pulled tight the chains until her arms and legs were stretched outward. The old woman stepped between the space between Sigrun's legs and drew forth from her belt a blood-stained knife.

There was a brilliant flash of green and two of the guards flew backwards into the stone walls of the cave. A bright blue flash and the old Dunmer woman disappeared completely. The remaining two guards ran back towards the tunnel, weapons drawn and voices raised in challenge at the newcomer, still shrouded in darkness and invisible to Sigrun. Suddenly both of the guards let out pained groans, as though they had been mortally wounded, and fell backwards. A low rumble was heard and Sigrun's bonds shattered. Another flash of light shone, then gently faded to a soft glow and the room was illuminated.

Sigrun's eyes slowly adjusted to all the bursts of light, and then when the light faded to a glow, she saw the room into which she had been brought. It was a torture chamber, outfitted with all manner of instruments of pain and suffering known to man or mer throughout Tamriel. With a horrified yell she practically fell off the table: the blood-stained end was directly between her legs, and it didn't take long for her to guess what they would have done to her.

Looking about for her rescuer, Sigrun saw nothing else in the room but a soft glowing ball of light. Warily she walked towards it, then noticed that it began to recede away from her. She had no weapon and none present save for a whip that hung upon the wall; the only one with any weapon was the old Dunmer woman, who was nowhere to be found. With nothing but her hands, raised at the ready in case an enemy assaulted her, Sigrun walked forward, following the little globe of light.

It led through the tunnels, winding this way and that, until Sigrun became quite lost in trying to keep track of where she had been. All around her, she heard the sounds of women rallying, the Sisters of Strife were still searching for her. Every moment she feared that she would stumble upon one of them and the chase would be up. Yet the little sphere of light led her through the tunnels, never once leading her into the path of an enemy. After a while, the orb seemed to sink down towards the floor. Sigrun looked down and saw her sword and shield lying there, waiting for her. How it arrived there she could not guess: perhaps her rescuer, the one who had conjured this floating ball of light, was a powerful mage? The memory of the old man in the woods who had chased off the wolves came to mind. Once Sigrun had her sword and shield in hand, the ball floated back up to eye level, and continued to lead the way through the dark tunnels.

* * *

She went forward slowly at first, brandishing her sword and shield held at arm's length, in case of assaults. All around her came the echoes of the Sisters of Strife running to and fro through the tunnels; sometimes faint and distant, sometimes so close at hand that she was looking this way and that, after the noises around her. Yet still the light moved forward, seemingly slowly. She passed out through a fork in the tunnel, with one path leading straight forward and another path passing from the left and down across her path into darkness on the right. From the left-hand came cries, as if someone had spotted her. Instinctively, Sigrun lurched forward down the forward path, and the ball of light zoomed back, as if moving faster in answer to her urgency.

Now she ran down the tunnels, and the ball flew ahead of her, keeping pace with her haste. The sounds of pursuit behind her were faint, but magnified upon the bare stone tunnels. Yet she was a Nord, not the least hearty of her race, and the child of Eirik Bjornsson. And she was healthy and strong, having eaten food from the table of the Sisters of Strife. Having regained her strength from the slower wandering before finding her weapons, she could keep up this pace for a good while without doubling over. Yet for some reason, as she ran out into the darkness of the tunnels, winding this way and that as the light led her, the tunnel seemed to twist and contort around her, turning from stone to fog: only the ball of light, receding still before her, leading her on, remained untouched. But around her, out of the mist, images started to appear. Some of them were familiar, images right out of the dreams she had seen in her sleep: others were quite different.

A bald Altmer drove his spear through the back of another Altmer. Or were they truly Altmer? As she looked at them, she saw that their heads were not as long, nor their eyes as squint and slanted, as those of the Altmer. A dark-haired woman, little less in height than Jonna, took up an old black staff and turned into a gray-haired old man. She saw her father, astride the Tongues of Old, staring down a great black dragon. A Dunmer male with half of his face golden was dancing about, completely naked, babbling nonsense: or was it a male at all? A strange Argonian was kissing her mother! Strange creatures, both human and mechanical, with strange devices upon their heads, like empty boxes made of metal and glass, loomed out of the mist. She saw herself saving a baby bear from a dragon, only to burst into flames even as she did. A great wheel swiveled about on its rim, and became a rimless sphere with no sides.

Even as her mind seemed that it would break with all this knowledge, the tiny ball of light burst into a great burning blaze. Perhaps it was in response to the things she had seen, or from the sudden explosion of light; Sigrun closed her eyes and covered her face with her shield. The cold wind blew against her face: she breathed in through her nostrils and gasped in relief. She smelled the free, open air of the outside world.

She was outside again.

For a moment, Sigrun smiled. She was free and had escaped the perils of the Sisters of Strife. The cool air that met her made her happy, and for the present, that was enough.

* * *

There was a bright flash of light, and the orb vanished. Sigrun looked this way and that, but did not recognize where she had found herself. There were golden plains this way and that, with lines of mountains in the distance on all sides; but the westernmost mountains were slightly nearer than the ones in the other direction. The sun was still in the sky, that much was certain, and it seemed that she had time enough to put some distance between herself and the cave before nightfall. Her mind and heart went back to Jonna, who was last seen in Whiterun. But she had no idea where she was in relation to Whiterun.

 _Wait, Sigrun, just wait_ , she told herself. _Think. Remember what papa used to say; if you get lost, just look for the Throat of the World._

This was meant for how she could find her way home: the full very went that she would find the mountain, the highest peak in all of Skyrim, and follow it until she found the White River. This would, in turn, lead her back to Lake Ilinalta, upon whose southern shores her house was located. But for her purposes, she knew that the Throat of the World sat just east of Whiterun, where she would need to be going. Therefore she looked about the golden plains of the tundra of Whiterun, looking for the tallest peak she could find. North she looked first, in the direction of the cold winds: the mountains were faint, crowned with snow and girded in a distant haze from the marshes below, but none of them stood out in her mind as the fabled peak of the Greybeards. Her blue-gray eyes turned to the west, where the land rippled and fell into steep, sheer crags, undulating on and on until they rose up again to meet the clear blue sky. But none of those peaks were the Throat of the World. To the south she turned, and looked face to face with the rocky cliff-face into whose side the cave wound away, towards her enemy. She made a quick jog eastward, coming around the bulk of the cliff-face to look at the land beyond it. It rolled upward, being lost in the emerald haze of ironwood and pine trees: that way was Falkreath, the way back home. The trees climbed on and on, until they failed at last and the mountains rose up to bar the path southward, but there was no great height that way. East she turned but saw only rocky hills in the distance, blocking her view any farther.

 _Dammit_ , she thought. _If I could get up on top of this hill, maybe I could see what's beyond those peaks._

Eagerly she made her way up the cliff to its brink. As she walked up, she passed by a deer's body that had fallen upon a long, moss-covered boulder. It was a strange sight, a deer lying dead in the wild having not already been made the sport of wild beasts. But she didn't spend time pondering it, for she still had her goal in mind. She went up the rest of the hill; her left foot slid on some loose gravel as she ascended, but she quickly recovered and so claimed the summit. Here she looked east again; there, in the distance, like a faint purple smudge upon the horizon, loomed a massive peak whose top was lost among the lofty clouds of the heavens. No other mountain in all of Skyrim could have rightly born the name of Throat of the World than this one. Sigrun smiled: she now knew where she was, somewhere in the western half of the amber plains of Whiterun. The only trouble now was getting there.

As she was making her way back down the hill, she let out a quiet gasp and halted. What she had thought had been a rock was now moving. The first thought that came to her mind was a troll: she never heard of trolls coming this far out from the woods or the mountains, but there was always a first time for anything. She held up her shield and aimed her sword at the figure, her mind pondering whether she should strike now or wait to see if it was indeed a troll.

"Who's there?" a voice asked, and Sigrun caught herself from making a sound again: the voice came from the thing that had risen up from the ground, and it was the voice of a human, or some other intelligent being either mer or beast-folk, and decidedly not a troll.

"Who are you?" Sigrun asked. "What do you want?"

"Want?" the voice asked again. "I was sleeping just now when small rocks rained down on my head. Was that you?"

"Maybe," Sigrun returned. "Why were you asleep out in the wilderness?"

"Where would one traveling off the roads spent the night?" asked the voice.

"Anywhere but here," Sigrun responded. "Now get up, on your feet. Let me look at you."

The shape moved and Sigrun saw that what she had taken to be a boulder was actually a weather-beaten cloak wrapped around the form of a Nord man. She could tell that he was a Nord based on his height and his long beard, red like the color of his hair. He wore leather traveling gear that was at least half a size too large for him, and had a bow and quiver upon his back and a sword lying on the ground where he had been sleeping. Sigrun swallowed hard, but did her best to maintain her composure: she had the distinct recollection of seeing this man somewhere before.

"You look like some kind of rogue," she said.

"I assure you, I'm nothing of the sort," the red-haired man replied. "My name is Erik, and I'm from Rorikstead. Now if you've been sent by my father to take me back, I suggest you go back and tell him that I've made up my mind."

"I...what?" asked Sigrun. "No, I'm not taking you back anywhere. I just want to know what you were doing up here."

"Sleeping," Erik returned.

"But it's almost noon," Sigrun said. "How can you be sleeping with the day ahead of us?"

"I was up all night," said Erik.

"Looting and killing?" Sigrun asked.

"On the run," Erik retorted. "There are some dangerous people about these parts..."

"Yeah, I'm looking at one," Sigrun interjected. "Or maybe that bow and that sword are just for show?"

"Not for show," Erik said, with a slight smile as he examined his captor, with sleep now fully removed from his eyes. "But not for looting, and only killing what tries to kill me."

"Right," Sigrun replied in disbelief. "And if you're not a rogue, then why were you sleeping out in the wilderness?"

Erik scoffed. "It wasn't my choice. Practically fell asleep where you found me."

"And the animal?"

"Kind of a last minute thing, really," he said. "See, I shot him yesterday morning, took his skin and wore it like this. Took it with me when I left home I did: felt it would be useful."

"Why?" Sigrun asked.

"Rorikstead's on the border of the Reach," Erik began. "The Kingdom of the Reachmen, they call it. The Forsworn wear deer pelts and antlers for their armor; they're the only ones the Sisters of Strife won't mess with."

"You've heard of the Sisters of Strife?" Sigrun asked.

"Yes," Erik nodded. "They've raided Rorikstead several times in the last few years. Killing the men and boys, abducting women and girls. What becomes of them, I've never heard."

"You know their hideout is beneath us, right?" Sigrun asked.

"Well, in that case," Erik returned. "Let's put some miles between us and them, shall we? Unless you want to fight, in which case, I would ask that you let me pick up my sword first."

"I'm not here to fight you," Sigrun returned. "I..." She sighed, frustrated as she remembered that they were likely still looking for her. "Look, I'm not friends of them either, and I need to get out of here fast." She lowered her shield, but her sword she kept held up.

"Which way are you going?" she asked.

"Whiterun," he returned.

"Then go in front of me," she said. "I want to make sure you don't try anything. And pick up your sword."

They went onward, going eastward toward the Throat of the World, with Erik at the front and Sigrun following behind him, her sword in hand and ready to be drawn if need be. While they walked, Sigrun thought about where she might have met this person before. Her first thoughts were to the times she had gone to Riverwood, prior to coming out this way: she couldn't recall ever seeing him there. Perhaps he had been a friend of her father's? They both bore the same name; though her father's was closer to the Old Atmoran, the language spoken by the people of Skyrim within the first seven centuries after Ysgramor, and his was how it was rendered these days in the Common Tongue.

Hours passed by as they walked on in silence, with the distant trumpeting of mammoths upon the tundra plain the only sound they could hear for miles. At last, having flogged the recesses of her mind and found nothing, Sigrun decided that there was a more direct way of finding out. As a result, when Erik said that she was beautiful, she had laughed it off and thought nothing of it. While she wasn't ignorant of the ways of the world, she did not believe that anyone considered her fair in any way.

While they walked on, Erik began whistling to the tune of Ragnar the Red, a favorite folk song and often heard in the taverns of Skyrim.

"Can you stop, please?" Sigrun asked.

"Why?" Erik asked. "Aren't we going to Whiterun? That's the direction, so I've heard."

"It's just that your whistling is really shrill," Sigrun returned.

"Well, if I'm to your prisoner," Erik returned. "Can I at least have the pleasure of merry-making while I'm still alive?"

"You're nobody's prisoner," Sigrun stated. "We're going to Whiterun, and I don't feel comfortable having you behind me."

Erik grinned. "Why not?"

"You know what I mean!" Sigrun snapped. "Meeting you out of nowhere in the wilds, I have no reason to trust you."

"Well, then," Erik stated. "It's in my best interest to earn your trust."

"And how would you do that, exactly?" Sigrun asked.

"I could carry your burdens for you," Erik returned.

"And what's to stop you from running off with my valuables once you have them?"

"I'm not a thief, dammit!"

"I remain unconvinced."

"What about a traveling companion?"

"I have one already. She waits for me in Whiterun."

"What about money?"

"I'm not taking money from a thief."

"I..." Erik groaned in frustration. "I told you before, I'm not a thief! This is honest money, earned from years of work at my father's farm in Rorikstead. I've been saving up money for the journey ever since the Sons of Skyrim had their battle upon the plains of Whiterun seventeen years ago."

"Wait," Sigrun said, her eyes widening with surprise. "You know about the Battle on the Plains?"

"Yes," Erik replied. "I mean, I wasn't part of the battle, but you could hear it from miles around. Rumor has it the Dragonborn was at that battle, making all that noise; shouting, they say he was. It was that moment when I realized that if I waited around for my father to let me leave home, I'd be waiting for the rest of my life."

"I see," Sigrun stated. "But that was seventeen years ago, and you said you only just left yesterday. So what have you been doing since then?"

"Working," Erik sighed. "I know, no great deeds worthy of song. But our fortunes took a turn for the worse after the end of the Civil War. The Empire gave the Forsworn control over the Reach; that was the start of our problems. After that, the Empire's taxes grew and we suffered more and more. My father could barely make ends meet these days."

"So you left him to fend for himself while you went off looking for adventure?" Sigrud asked incredulously.

"No," Erik replied. "Well, not exactly. I've been saving up money for this journey for many years, ever since the Battle of the Plains. I wanted to make sure that my father had workers to tend the farm for him in my absence, so he'd not be left to starve on his own. Besides, unless something is done, there may not even be a Rorikstead to come home to."

Sigrud said nothing in response to this. His words held true for her, for they spoke to her desire to see Skyrim free of the evils that had been plaguing it of late. For some time they walked on in silence, the amber fields of Whiterun's tundra rippling in the cold morning wind. Ever they kept the sun ahead of them, for it would lead them at last to the city of Whiterun, which still lay east of them. After a little while longer, Sigrun thought she would put more questions to Erik.

"Erik," she spoke. He looked back briefly, though they continued walking. "You seem...somewhat familiar. Have we met?"

He shrugged. "I think I'd remember seeing someone as beautiful as you."

Sigrun chuckled. "Flattery won't get anywhere with me; and I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you, so I wouldn't paint a target on my back if I were you." He apologized and turned back around, saying no more.

As for Sigrun, his response had caught her as a surprise more than a cause for anger. For all of her young adult life, she believed that she was more or less tall and plain: she had her father's brown hair, rather than the golden hair that was considered especially beautiful among the Nords of Skyrim. Not in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that she would be held as fair in the eyes of another. Even as she mulled over this sad thought, it suddenly came to her; like a flash of lightning, she realized precisely where she had seen this man's face.

In the dreams she had witnessed while she escaped the caves. Why she had seen this man in her dreams, when she had never seen him before in her life, was a mystery. She half-believed that he could have been the one who had saved her from the wolves, but didn't hold to this thought very long. This man was a warrior and there was no mystery about him; that is, not the same air of mystery and dread that that one gave her. Now in her mind she had two things in her mind, if not three altogether. She would learn what was happening in Skyrim (as she had gained knowledge of in part from her conversation with Erik) and do her part to help, she would seek out Jonna and be reunited with her: no matter what had happened between them that had brought about their falling out, she knew in her heart that they belonged together and not apart.

Lastly, she would learn just who this man Erik was and for what reason his face haunted her dreams and visions.

* * *

 **(AN: This chapter has taken a long while getting out, for sure. Aside from what I've usually been whining about [health and real life obligations], I've lost interest in writing this particular story. The person who I based Sigrun on turned out to be another shill, and writing stories in the _Elder Scrolls_ lore is an exercise in futility when you can literally say 'all the lore books lie' and 'it was a Dragon break' and get away with making an ungodly mess of contradictions.)**

 **(I do have a question for all of you, though, who happen to be reading this story [all one of you]: if an _Elder Scrolls_ movie or television series were made, where would you want it to be set? I think Morrowind would be a struggle only because prosthesis would be the most logical way of depicting the non-human mer while keeping that relatable "human" element that movie-goers enjoy [if you really think movie-going audiences will like a fantasy setting with 51% CGI, just look at how well the _Warcraft_ and _Justice League_ movies were received], but at the same time, I feel that prosthesis and body suits in films have been in decline since _Cat in the Hat_ , and that people would find a prosthetic Dunmer or Khajiit would "restrict" an actor's movements and emoting. What do you all think?)**


	16. The Emperor's Request

**(AN: As far as ideas for this story go, I have planned out this chapter and one of several possible endings. It's only a matter of deciding which one is the right ending and not influenced by my own past. Also I was surprised to see all the people following _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ , and more surprised that, despite this, all of the newer reviews were trashing me and my writing. Like my music, it deflates my interest in continuing with anything. But yeah, enough "disconcerting" whining on my part: you all just want more mediocre, grammatically poor chapters.)**

 **(If you can guess from the title of this chapter, this is the part of the story where the spider comes along.)**

* * *

 **The Emperor's Request**

The bag was pulled off of Jonna's head and she found herself inside a small personal carriage, that was parked. There were only a few small lamps upon the walls that gave little light to the tiny carriage compartment. Before her Jonna saw a figure clad in a black cloak, with the glint of gold upon the fringes of the hood and cloak. In the light of the lamps, she could see gold glinting from the shadows of the figure's cloak.

"Who are you?" Jonna asked. "What do you want?"

The figure reached up and pulled back the hood. Jonna had never met the Emperor, the one whom Sigrun's father had called Servius Crixus, but she had seen his face on newly minted coins: the servus. When and why these new coins had been minted she never truly knew, but the face she recognized as that belonging to the man who was now sitting in front of her. He didn't look very old, less than twice her age and no younger than thirty from the looks of it, but there could be no mistaking it.

"I am your Emperor," he said.

"What do you want of me?" Jonna asked.

"Your mother served me in her time," Crixus said. "And your father was loyal to my predecessor. Now I ask that you, Jonna, daughter of Jordis the Shield-maiden, do your duty to your Emperor."

Jonna was taken aback by what she had heard. The thing she met in Whiterun had little right to call himself her father, based not only on what he was now but what he had done, if it could be believed. But the idea that the Emperor would be here, in Skyrim of all places, and speaking to her, was indeed a great surprise. What could she possibly have to give that could satisfy the Emperor?

"And just what duty is that?" she asked, pressing her legs together and shifting them aside, so that her knees were facing away from him.

Crixus chuckled. "I could have any one in all of Tamriel - man or woman, anyone in Tamriel - at a word. If I wanted a fuck, I wouldn't go about it this way."

There was no doubt in her mind that this was the very one that had troubled Eirik in his time. As he had told it, he had quite a mouth on him: it was indeed rather odd that the Emperor of Tamriel - or at least, of High Rock, half of Skyrim, and Cyrodiil - would swear like a sailor.

"No, the duty you owe to the Empire is of much greater importance," Crixus continued. "The Empire is on the verge of collapse and only you can save it."

"Only me? Really?" Jonna asked. "And how can I do all of this? I'm nobody! You're the Emperor: what can I do that you can't?"

"Quite a bit, actually," Crixus stated. "You can act decisively without the burden of the Dominion breathing over your shoulders every fucking minute. You hold the ear of the powerful in Skyrim, who stubbornly refuse to heed the voice of their Emperor." He sighed. "And...you hold the key to my freedom in your hand."

"Right," Jonna said, still unconvinced with the Emperor's rhetoric. "And if I refuse? What then?"

The Emperor chuckled. "What? Did you expect me to threaten you with death and torture?"

"I've heard many things about you," Jonna replied. "All of it bad. Whatever you're planning, I don't want any part of it."

"Very well," the Emperor said, shifting into an unconventional air of agreeable calm. "You're free to go."

"I-what?" Jonna asked, flabbergasted at the Emperor's change in demeanor.

"You're free to leave," said the Emperor.

Jonna reached for the carriage door, opened it, and gasped. The ground outside the carriage was moving and she could hear the sounds of horse-hooves clopping and the wagon wheels rumbling along the bumpy road. She turned back to the Emperor; his peaceful, easy-going demeanor had changed and he was now grinning wickedly at her.

"Where am I?" Jonna asked. "What trickery is this?"

"Imperial battle-mages," quoth the Emperor. "A few well-placed spells muffled all sound and movement of the carriage, creating the illusion that we've been sitting still this whole time."

"But I was promised that I'd be returned to my Companions when my business was done!"

"I made no such promise," the Emperor replied. "Nonetheless, you're free to try and get back to your companions; if you can find them, that is."

"This is kidnapping!" Jonna exclaimed.

"I fucking care!" the Emperor mocked.

Jonna closed the carriage door and made her way back down to her seat, eying the Emperor with greater distrust. However, once the door was closed and the young Nord woman seated, Emperor Crixus suddenly became pleasant again.

"What duty do you ask of me?" Jonna asked.

"That's more like it," said the Emperor.

"Now then, your duty is simple: convince Eirik the Dragonborn to swear his loyalty to me."

"Only that?" Jonna asked.

"Only that," Emperor Crixus repeated. "If you can do this, you will have done the Empire a great and noble deed."

"I don't think I can get Eirik to serve you again," Jonna said.

"You doubt your own ability?" Crixus asked. "Have I made a mistake in choosing you?"

"I know what happened between you and Eirik," Jonna retorted. "I've been told all the tales."

"Oh, you have, now?" Emperor Crixus asked. "And while he was telling you all of these great tales, doubtless full of self-aggrandizing and butchering of the Common Tongue characteristic to your race, did he also tell you that he was responsible for my rise to power?"

"What?"

"It's true," said Crixus. "He was instrumental in dethroning the Elder Council and placing me in a position to become Emperor. And now he's needed again."

"I don't believe you," Jonna stated.

"Ah, the naïveté of Nords," Crixus said with an air of condescension. "When are you people going to get it through your thick skulls that no one gives a fuck about honor or bloodlines anymore?" He sighed and there appeared to be a grim look on his face; Jonna didn't care much how he felt, but she did not ignore his look of defeat.

"And you know who we have to blame for all of this?" she asked. "You Nords. Your fucking Tiber Septim, or Hjalti Early-Beard, or whatever the fuck you want to call him, stabbing people in the back, lording himself over the people of Tamriel. He awoke the hatred of civilized humans like Colovians, Nibenese, Redguards, and Bretons, in the hearts of every mer in Tamriel: that hatred had long and far-reaching consequences, even unto this day with the Great War. Your precious Ulfric only fed the fires of hatred with his little uprising, and now, now the Empire is on the brink of collapse because of it. It's only fitting that the bastard race that started this whole mess be the ones to fix it."

"Why should I serve one who hates me and my kind?" Jonna asked.

"Oh, you fucking child!" Crixus exclaimed. "'Oh, my poor feelings were hurt, so I'm going to let the Empire and millions die because the Emperor didn't kiss my arse!' Boo-fucking-hoo! It's time you and your race grew the fuck up!" Jonna was silent and had no retort for the Emperor.

"Now then," he said, having calmed down. "I trust that you will say yes to my offer."

"It won't be easy to get Eirik to serve you," Jonna said at last. "Especially with your hatred of our people so apparent."

" _Your_ people," Crixus clarified. "I have no part in _your_ people's history."

"That's not what I heard from Eirik," Jonna commented. Suddenly Crixus punched her in the face, laying her back on the wall of the carriage. After recovering from the shock, she tried to return the blow but found a knife at her throat. Crixus held the knife and a keen smile was on his face.

"Lay a hand on your Emperor," Crixus threatened. "And you'll never see your mother, your friends, or your precious Eirik ever again: is that clear?" Jonna slowly backed away, and sat back down in her chair, then reached up to her nose to feel where Crixus had hit her.

"Now then," Crixus groaned. "I can see that you have no loyalty to any but yourself, and that you are as savage as any Nord in this damn country."

"So why bother with me?" Jonna asked.

"You know Eirik," Crixus stated. "You have the confidence of him and his family. Therefore you will be instrumental in bringing him back to my side...and other things as well."

"Huh," Jonna uttered. "I had a feeling there'd be more to what you would be asking of me. Alright, what else do you want?"

"I've never been one for religion or worship," Crixus said. "If Eirik has told you anything, he's told you that. But there are certain...beings of great power, ones whom even I can no longer doubt their existence: the lords of Oblivion." Jonna's skin crawled at the mention of the Daedric Princes. She had heard whispers and rumors about them from Eirik's tales, but never anything substantial. As Eirik had said, the Daedra were not to be trifled with: they offered great power and demanded a greater payment. Worse still, they never collected their debts straight-forwardly and at once, but would come to collect at the worst possible times.

"And what does the Emperor have to do with the Daedra?" Jonna asked.

"Pacts were made," Crixus slowly said, averting his eyes to the floor of the carriage uncomfortably. "For the undoing of my enemies and for my own power. They have not yet come to collect, but I know they will soon. As such, I have several places I wish for you to visit in your travels." Crixus removed from the bosom of his robe a roll made of netch leather. This he handed to Jonna, who unrolled it and held it up to the candlelight in order to get a better look at it. There was nothing else drawn on it but a description of some locations:

 _Saecellum of Boethiah, east of New Gnisis. At the depths of Haemar's Shame in the northern side of the Jerall Mountains.  
In Cyrodii  
L, on the far w  
Est of the snows of Bruma, north of the mai  
N road. In the Keep of  
Castle Volkihar on the island in the s  
Eas of the north, off the coast of Skyrim. The Ratway beneath Riften: ask Guildmaster Brynjolf, tell him the Nightingale has sent you. _

_seek out the lords of madness and pleasure: tell them you have been sent to settle the debt of Servius Crixus._

"What is this?" Jonna asked.

"The list of all the Great Ones who I owe something to," Crixus said.

"You want me to settle your debts for you?" Jonna asked. "You want me to bring Eirik back to your service _and_ in addition, clear your debts with eight Daedric Princes? That's all you want me to do?"

"Yes," Crixus returned. "Oh, and don't try to talk about this little addendum to your duties with anyone else: I'm sure you've noticed a few...additional words in the text that were...unusually spelled. I didn't get a Nord to write this for me, trust me: it's an enchantment. The words you've been reading just now have cast a spell on you; you will be unable to speak of the contents of this roll to anyone other than those written on this written therein. Trust me, you wouldn't like what will happen if you try to talk about it to anyone."

"Wha-What?" Jonna asked.

"Your Emperor thanks you for your devoted service to me," Crixus said. With that he banged on the roof of the carriage. Before Jonna could say 'no' or any other word, the door was opened again and strong hands seized her and threw her out of the moving carriage. She hit the cold snow face first and was, for a moment, dazed. She pushed herself up out of the snow and tried to run after the carriage: but there was more magic behind it than she had guessed at first. The wheels left no tracks in the snow-covered road, and it was already far and ahead of her.

Jonna looked down at her right hand and saw the roll, resting in a crumpled ball, in her hand. Angrily she threw it away and looked about her: where she was, she could not guess where, as it was covered in snow. There seemed to be trees around as well, but this was no indication of where she might be. Furthermore, it was dark and the moons were hidden beneath a night-sky full of clouds. She would have a hard time finding where she was or how to get back to the other Companions. Suddenly she paused, for she felt something slip in between her traveling clothes by her breast. She reached into her bosom and her eyes widened in shock when she saw what she held in her hand.

The crumpled roll she had been given by the Emperor.

* * *

 **(AN: The last chapter felt very brief, and this one was even briefer, I believe. As you can see, Emperor Crixus is using battle-mages much more than Eirik uses the Summon Dragon shout. I never like using magic a lot in my stories, since it destroys any conflict. In fact, that gives me an idea for a sub-plot for this very story. But for the sake of Crixus, who had no qualms about using magic to further his ends, I thought it would be worth showing a bit off here. I also used a "not so clever" visual metaphor in order to describe the spell used on the parchment)**

 **(As for the future, I have several stories in mind: obviously this one, which might just be the conclusion of my _Elder Scrolls_ cycle, the _Warcraft_ cycle, my _Mental Omega_ epic, and maybe even something else based on _Knights of the Old Republic 2_ , with something special coming out around Christmastime. I can't give a time-schedule for any of these, especially since work on all of these stories is going VERY slowly, or not at all. If I may throw out a request, I am looking for a beta-reader for my _Knights of the Old Republic 2_ fic, since I'm planning that on being one of my next big projects.)**


	17. The Old Man

**(AN: Wow, has it really been almost a year since I last updated this story? Well then, it's a good idea I'm back for a while to keep on writing. Well, for this one, I decided to throw out my retort to an age-old criticism of a certain high fantasy trope. Just watch and see what will happen.)**

 **(Also, I've noticed a lot of reviews popping up on my older fics. I'm not reading them anymore, since those stories are completed [and the ones that are getting reviewed are 100% just flames]. I might go back and revisit _Exodus_ again, mostly because of my reading of _Legends of the Jews_ : but aside from a few other things planned, I'm not going back to my old stories and reading all the hate. If you want to get my attention, review the newer stories [like this one]).**

* * *

 **The Old Man**

They walked on for what seemed like an eternity. The amber waves of the tundra of western Whiterun continued onward, under the swiftly rising sun. In the distance, the main mass of the Throat of the World began to appear, looming tower-like out of the tundra and burying its silver head in the lofty clouds. Beneath that they could see the golden roofs of Whiterun glistening in the morning sun. But all was not well; the golden roofs of Whiterun did not glisten so brightly. A thin pillar of smoke wafted up from the hill upon which the city was built.

"Do you see that?" Erik asked, pointing eastward.

"Yes," Sigrun lied; in truth, her eyesight was not very keen. Likely another issue that made her less than adequate at hunting.

"What do you make of it?" Erik returned.

"I...I don't know," Sigrun replied, stumbling over her words. She had made a boast which she could not carry out, now that she was being called upon it. "What do you think?"

"I've never been this far east," Erik said. "But I did hear rumors of the killings in Whiterun. The Jarl puts anyone who disagrees with him or the Empire's rule to death; but I never heard a thing about burning."

"Hmph," Sigrun shrugged. "Maybe he ran out of room on the city walls."

"That's hardly something to joke about," Erik replied.

"Just shut up and go on ahead," she ordered.

The two of them continued on, walking toward the distant sight of that city. As they went, they scanned the golden fields this way and that; one could see for miles on the plains and little could be hidden from sight. Only the distant view of Whiterun could be seen before them. More than this, quiet filled the mid-morning air. The wind moved so gently that it made not a sound, and no birds cried above their heads in the blue expanse. Even the sounds of herds of mammoths, led to pasture by their giant shepherds, became distant and faint before at last fading away entirely into the background hum of the plains.

It seemed that they were quite alone out here on the tundra. Or, if perchance they would meet with assaults, they would be spotted more than a mile away and so could not take them by surprise. On the other hand, they were particularly open to any and all eyes that might be looking for them. Therefore as they walked forward, Sigrun would cast her eyes over her shoulder, to see if she was being followed by the Sisters of Strife. Seven times in one hour she looked behind her, but there was no sign of approach.

After the seventh glance, she turned back around to keep an eye on Erik in front of her, and suddenly stopped short.

"Erik, stop!" she whispered. He stopped and turned back to see what had caught her attention, but she held up her hand to silence him and then pointed away to her left, toward the north.

Rising up out of the ground there appeared a stone standing solitary in the midst of the plain. It looked rather far off, at least two bow-shots away from them, and rather slender; not at all like the large standing stones raised by the ancient Atmorans, upon whose bodies runes were carved. But there was something else about this standing stone; something more astounding and alarming.

"Do you see that?" Sigrun whispered. "That stone rising up out of the plain?"

"Well, yes, I see it," Erik shrugged.

"That wasn't there last time I looked," Sigrun replied. "Did you see it before I pointed it out to you?"

"Hmm," Erik mused. "Come to think of it, no." He furrowed his brow, looking out again. "Strange."

Sigrun rubbed her eyes, hoping that she was imagining things. When she looked again, she stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to keep from gasping out. It seemed that the stone had moved closer to them. It was bad enough that she couldn't make out whatever it was, due to her less than sharp eyesight, but now it seemed to be coming toward them. She tried to think of all the wild creatures she had heard tales about that could possibly be that large: wild wolves, tavern brawls, and Dunmer slavers were one thing, but she hadn't faced anything truly larger than her. One hand shielded her eyes from the sun while the other reached for her sword.

"What are you doing?" Erik whispered, noticing that she was reaching for her weapon.

"That thing is moving toward us," Sigrun replied in a hoarse whisper.

Erik chuckled. "No, that can't be. It's a stone."

"Look again!" she hissed. He looked back out.

"Shor's bones, it _is_ moving!" Erik exclaimed in a furtive whisper.

"Get your bow out," she said to him. "We just may have to fight."

Erik reached for his bow and fitted an arrow upon the string, but did not bend it. Sigrun meanwhile drew out her sword and hefted her shield into position, her hand upon the center-grip. Both of them kept their eyes on the stone-like shape. For the moment it seemed to have halted, as though it knew that it was being watched and so became still again until it was ignored.

"Quick," Sigrun hissed. "Fire an arrow at it."

Erik nodded, drew back the bow, then relaxed the string with a furrowed look on his brow.

"What is it?" she returned. "Why don't you shoot?"

"The stone's gone," Erik said. "I just had my eyes on it, and now when I drew the bow back, it disappeared."

"How could a stone just disappear?" Sigrun asked.

"What?" Erik asked. "Moving was fine, but disappearing you couldn't believe?" Sigrun gave him a sour expression.

"Perhaps I can answer that for you."

Both of them turned about with a gasp at the sound of the third voice: it was the voice of an older man, speaking as though he were but six long cubits behind them. As they turned around, Sigrun's eyes widened even more as she recognized the wizened, shadow-clad figure that had chased off the wolves many nights ago.

"Who are you?" Sigrun demanded, drawing her sword and brandishing it before the figure. "What do you want with me?"

"Peace, Sigrun," the old man said. "I mean you and Jonna no harm; lower your weapon."

"How do you know me?" Sigrun demanded again.

"I know everything there is to know about you, Sigrun," the old man replied. "But I cannot answer you in full as to why I know what I do. My time in this plane is very short indeed, and the longer I stay here, the weaker I become. You will not find Jonna in Whiterun, Sigrun. Go north, into the snows of the Pale. Upon the road to Dawnstar you will find a tree that has been knocked onto the road by a snow troll. In its lair you will find Jonna, alive and well."

"What?" Sigrun exclaimed. "What is she doing up there? And how do you..."

"I must go," the old man returned. "Do not seek for me in Mundus, for you shall never find me. When I have regained my strength, I shall find you again and tell you more." With that, there was a flash of green light, which sent the arms of Sigrun and Erik up to shield their faces. Then, just as soon as it had appeared, the light faded. There was no sign or sight of the old man anywhere upon the fields.

"Who is Jonna?" Erik asked.

"Mind your own business!" Sigrun snapped.

In truth, she was only slightly annoyed that he had disrupted her concentration. Her mind was more preoccupied with what she had just seen and heard. Who was this old man? How did he know who she was or where Jonna was? She had heard tales of her father's many journeys and the less than cordial encounters he had had with certain mages in his time, which lent themselves to some rather telling warnings about tangling in their affairs. But into her mind came the incident with the wolves. Of course Jonna would have given an excuse that this was a trap, since she had believed that this old man had led the wolves to them; but for herself, she believed that he had driven them off. In her mind, there was something else about this old man, something that drew her in; it was not a madness, for she was in full control of her faculties. Also, surprisingly enough, she hadn't seen any of the mind-numbing apparitions which had been appearing to her lately.

She wondered if the old man's presence didn't have something to do with their absence.

As for Erik, he was still standing beside her, wondering at her inaction and why she remained silent. He returned his bow to his back and the arrow to its quiver, then turned back to her.

"So what's the plan, then?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" she returned.

"Well, I thought we were going to Whiterun," Erik stated. "But this guy seemed to know you and..."

"I said drop it," she sighed.

"I'm still your captive, more or less," Erik replied. "Unless you're planning on letting me go."

"No, you're still my captive," Sigrun returned.

"Then where are we going? I want to know what's been planned for me, if that's alright with you!"

"Will you s..." Sigrun began, but stopped short. Just then she had a mental picture of herself standing before the old man, who, like now, was not answering her questions but being cryptic. She realized that she would have been just as eager as Erik to know what he knew, especially when it pertained to herself. Only he was just, so...

"Listen," she said, after taking a deep breath. "I don't know what's going on right now, and frankly I don't care. All I know is that we're going to Whiterun and that's that. We can figure things out once we get there. Now can you live with that?"

Erik grinned. "I suppose I don't have an option either way."

Sigrun balked slightly at his smile. It wasn't exactly the response she had expected for what she had said to him. She gripped her sword tighter in her hand, walked over behind Erik, and having him go in front, continued on her present course to Whiterun.

* * *

 **(AN: Pardon me for sounding like an old geezer for a moment [I was born in 1990 and I still remember late 20th century things, like Blockbuster, VHS, cassette tapes, phones that were for calling people and used cords, and the Blue Dress scandal], but from my constant viewing of videos by online movie critics, I've begun to notice a trend among critics of the epic fantasy. These people seem to all agree that the protagonist deserves 100% full disclosure at the outset of their journey, before they have even begun to grow: and if even a little bit of information is withheld, even for the protagonist's own good, the mentor is decried as cruel, malicious, evil, and worthless [and some people, like Chris Avellone, go out of their way to show their disdain for said mentor figures by creating a game where THEY are the villains!])**

 **(Well, I'm fed up with that criticism, so I decided that I'd display just why that's an awful idea in this very story.)**

 **(Also, yay, one chapter after almost a year of inactivity! It was so short, but I've been burned out on writing almost all this year, so let's at least be grateful for something small. But things are about to get very weird going forward.)**


End file.
